


O-T-P: Endgame

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Series: O-T-P: A Saga of Epic True Love and Stuff [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, JBWeek2k18, YesthishappenedagainbutitsthelasttimeIswear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-07-20 23:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 91,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: Stupid things are supposed to come in three's, right?The conspiracy sisterhood of Myrcy, Marg, and Sansa is back, determined to plan the most perfect epic wedding of all time for their One True Pairing. Little do they know that maybe, just maybe, this time Hot Uncle Jaime is one step ahead. Shenanigans and secrets abound, and so does Tommen's mini-zoo.





	1. In Which There is a Hiatus, a Brand New Plan, and a 24-Hour Sept

**Author's Note:**

> Three parts to this dumbass epic, three notes:
> 
> 1) Even though I am probably the absolute worst person in the history of Ao3 when it comes to leaving comments, replying to comments, or remembering to check comments at all since my email inevitably sends them to spam, I truly, heartfelt-edly appreciate everyone who has ever left me a comment, and I hereby vow to do fucking better dammit.
> 
> 2) Mikki makes everything I do better, and probably happen at all. As always, much love boo, and probably my favorite part of this whole thingamajig is her idea (spoiler: brawk).
> 
> 3) YES, Gumtree, I KNOW I have languishing fic! It's being worked upon. But this just...happened. It wanted to happen, and this is the real, official end to the OTP nonsense. I do love it, my cracky batshit nuts world. In honor of this JB Week, the very last one before we all actually KNOW real endgame, this one is for all of you to make you laugh.

Chapter 1: 84 Years

 

“It’s been practically like two years, people. How are we not totally dead yet?”

“I’ve been a gross, stinking corpse for at least five years now.”

“Admit it, it’s been eighty-four years, and we’re practically bog mummies.”

“Gods, Sansa, just because you’re taking archaeology doesn’t give you license to mummify everything! And really, it’s only been like one year if we’re honest.” Margaery Tyrell rolled her eyes, only to cringe when her lash extensions stuck to her contacts again. “It just feels longer.”

“Well, just because you’re taking business whatever, doesn’t give you  _ license _ to condemn my application of new, mature vocabulary!” Sansa Stark sniped back, sticking out her tongue.

“ _ Mummy _ is mature vocabulary?” Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister pondered from her reclined position on Marg’s carpet. “I’m pretty sure we’ve all known  _ mummy _ and  _ license _ from like, birth.”

“Oh no, babies don’t understand words for like, three months or something! I took early childhood development for business people, remember?” Marg continued to wrestle with her flamboyant lashes.

“You’re discounting the possibility of hidden depths in the unformed brain, Marg! I took esoteric philosophical rejections, remember?” Sansa scoffed.

Myrcy stomped her feet on the carpet. “And I’ve taken latte art, thrifting 101, and Viewtube marketing. You’re both way smarter than me now, obvs. Whatevs. None of this has anything to do with your stupid  _ uni _ or your elevated vocab or your matching edgelord haircuts! This is…it’s a  _ hiatus _ people. It’s killing us  _ ded _ !”

Marg and Sansa both raised their left hands to self-consciously stroke their matching asymmetric haircuts. Sansa’s wasn’t growing out quite as…evenly, as Marg’s. Myrcy sighed. It wasn’t that uni had changed her two dearest friend-sisters, but it  _ had _ . And  _ not _ going had changed her, and nobody seemed to know quite how to handle just about anything.

It was almost the end of their freshman year, or in Myrcy’s case, her not-freshman year. It seemed as if a lifetime had passed since their high school days. Those had been simpler times, so much less angst, so much more freedom! Now Marg was always taking extra business seminars, or juggling two-to-four enraptured boys. Sansa was dabbling in every single subject available to find her passion, and was constantly enmeshed with Willas Tyrell and their acoustic folk duo latte bar/sidewalk gigs.

And she, Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister, was an eighteen-year-old expert cold brew producer dressed in upcycled diy thriftage with too much time on her hands to add to her nearly two hundred thousand Viewtube followers. She should have gone to uni, even though there was almost nothing she hated more than that idea.

Almost. The thing she hated most in the entire world was that she was not yet a Fabulous Lannister Aunt Woman. Uncle Jaime had been the  _ most _ amazeballs uncle the world had ever produced, so of course, Myrcy knew that she herself would have to be the most amazeballs aunt to Jaime’s tall awkward babies.

Except there weren’t any. It was a travesty. What was she supposed to  _ do  _ with herself?!?!? So what if being the most Fabulous Lannister Aunt Woman would essentially mean being a  _ nanny _ , but she could be the  _ greatest _ ! You know?

She had thought…they  _ all _ had thought…that Uncle Jaime would have swept his soulmate and all-around mythical unicorn girlfriend Brienne Tarth off her sensibly-shoed feet to get married the hour after he had proposed. But he had  _ not _ . They were  _ not _ married at all! Yet. Myrcy couldn’t tell if they were even thinking about a wedding. 

Myrcy, though tempted too many times to count, would not fall into the trap she fallen into the year before, the one where Uncle Jaime and Cinnamon Roll Brienne had hidden their PDAs so long she had thought their lava-hot passion was cooling to the point of causing her to die of angst.

_ That _ wasn’t the issue. It was so far from the issue that it made her wonder every two or three minutes of her life exactly  _ how _ there were no tall awkward babies. Her room might be on an entire floor above theirs, and Uncle Jaime might think he’d sufficiently sound-proofed things, but poor little Tommen had been forced into begging for an ocean-whale-sounds sleep machine, and she’d come to spend more than half her nights at Marg and Sansa’s flat. They had lasted two months in the dorms before Margaery had an epic meltdown and Sansa’s germphobia grew much, much worse. Marg convinced her grandmother to buy the apartment block closest to the business building and the smoothie emporium. She and Sansa got the nicest flat, because  _ of course _ . 

Her spot on their new-ish carpet had a butt-shaped dent in it.

She wiggled said butt to settle in further. It had fallen silent,  _ too _ silent. It was a matter of seconds until Marg would burst with whatever her current source of distress might be. She was  _ so _ distressed now.

Marg sighed. It sounded almost like Tommen’s whale sounds. “I’m so  _ bored _ .”

“You lurve your classes, Marg. How do you even have time be bored?” Sansa’s voice was a little muffled since she’d drawn all her hair to the front to examine the progress of her grow-out.

“Yes, I love my classes, but it’s just… _ life _ , you know? Like, where the fuck is  _ my _ Hot Uncle Jaime? And stuff.” Marg drooped back on the sofa, a wilted, dead rose.

“He’s waiting for you, Marg. Somewhere. Maybe the desert.” Sansa sighed.

“Easy for you to say! You’re still with my limpy brother!” Marg shoved a pillow at Sansa.

“He’s not limpy! He’s just…got a limp! It’s hot!” Sansa shoved back.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Myrcy commanded. “Face it, we’re stagnant.  _ All _ of us are stagnant. I have no clue what I’m doing like,  _ ever _ , and Marg, you’re succeeding in becoming your grandmother, but you hate your personal life, and Sansa, you won’t admit that you also have no clue what you’re doing because you just want to write poems and stare at Willas all day.”

“I do not hate my personal life!” Marg shouted. “Just the man part!”

“I do too have clues!” Sansa grimaced. “Just maybe only a few.”

“Well I do  _ not _ ,” Myrcy groaned, the plague of her gap year taking its toll. “I can’t be a barista forever! I can’t sell upcycled old-people castoffs on Fleabay forever! I can’t make Viewtube content about making upcycled old-people castoffs and doing walking tours of fandom filming locations forever! What am I  _ doing _ , help!”

Marg and Sansa sighed.

Then Marg took a violent swig of gin straight from the bottle sitting on her fancy end table. “I know exactly what we need.

“Thank the gods!” Myrcy proclaimed. “What?!?!”

Marg leaned forward, still holding the gin bottle, a wicked gleam darkening her eyes. “A  _ project _ .”

“Oh gods  _ yes _ , a project!” Sansa screamed. She almost sounded like her olden days of wailing about everything.

“We haven’t done a project in five hundred ages.” Myrcy grinned, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin up with her palms.

“We need the reminder of our own inherent awesomeness,” Marg offered. “All our projects succeed beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, even ours. It’s really a service to others to continue…projecting.”

“It’s so true,” Sansa nodded as if the great philosopher Maester Aemon himself were lecturing her.

“Just look at our majesty!” Marg hugged the gin bottle to her chest. “We got Hot Uncle Jaime to hook up with Unicorn Brienne, then we got them to bang, then we got them to propose, and we got Willas to bind himself to Sansa—”

“We are bound to each  _ other _ , Marg! Gods! We are equals in every single way, including shoe size!”

“My brother does have incredibly small feet.”

Myrcy smacked the carpet to get back on track. “Yes, yes, we’re super awesome, but what do we do  _ now _ ?!?!”

“Hmm,” Marg tapped her chin with one perfectly-manicured finger. “Is Tommen still too young to get a girlfriend?”

“I know this one girl, Lyanna Mormont, but she might be a little too  _ Marg _ for poor little Tommen,” Sansa pondered.

“That’s unbecomingly dumb, duh. Tommen isn’t even eleven yet, and he still only cares about cats and lizards and breeding chickens or whatever. He says he’s going to produce some kind of new egg that tastes like fish so cat food will become healthier and cheaper, and they’ll stop making it with filler. He’s so totes adorbs!” Even though his chickens were identical beaky monsters that smelled like feet and probably had lice somewhere. .

“Okay then…what’s Arya up to these days?” Marg turned to Sansa.

“Oh, you know, the usual. She’s a senior soon now, and she still wants to do stunt work and effects makeup. She’s always popping up in my classes dressed like the Crone or something.  _ So  _ embarrassing.” Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Still boning Gendry?” Myrcy teased.

“Ew, stahp! I know nothing about anything! They’re always on and off, screaming at each other, snogging, whatever. Then Gendry runs back to Fleabottom to find himself, but he gets mugged and comes back, and Arya stitches him up and they’re back to snogging. They’re like, completely insane.” Sansa shuddered.

“Not at all like you and Willas, totally  _ normal _ people who read poetry to each other and braid each other’s hair.” Marg slapped Sansa’s arm.

“Willas does have such beautiful hair…”

“Okay okay, so  _ who _ ?!?!” Myrcy demanded. “I need  _ something _ and  _ now _ !”

“OMG fucking duh!” Marg shouted, the gin slipping precariously down to her lap. “We never fail, but our greatest successes are always about Hot Uncle Jaime! So we do it again, but better, smarter. Because we’re better and smarter now. Obvs.”

Marg’s cloud of brilliance wafted over to her brain, and Myrcy leapt to her feet with inspiration. “OMG, fucking duh is right!”

“What is happening!?!?” Sansa wailed.

“Oh dear girl, a  _ wedding _ of course.” Marg sounded so much like her grandmother that Myrcy wondered if Olenna Tyrell had just died and become a ghost who had taken possession of her granddaughter. They were basically the same person anyway. She wouldn't be surprised if Marg started wearing turbans

“Whose wedding?!?!” Sansa waved her hands back and forth like she was suddenly burning hot for no reason.

Myrcy shouted loud enough to rattle the windows. “Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne’s!  _ Their _ wedding! We’re going to force them into a wedding that will be the absolute most amazeballs wedding that ever happened, and they’re going to love it, and  _ then _ they will finally have my babies!”

“Yaaassss!” Sansa shrieked.

“Um, not  _ your _ babies, but yaaassssss!” Marg joined in.

“I can’t even with the waiting anyway!” Sansa sighed. “I mean,  _ why _ ??!?! It’s been eighty-four years!”

Myrcy shrugged. “Well, they said they wanted to settle into the new house, and then Joff went to jail again for chopping that old book at the museum in half with a sword, and there was Tom’s adoption thing, and then the party for the adoption thing when he got the chickens, then Brienne’s book came out, and then we all died of feels, and it exploded, and she had all those interviews, and she was exhausted, and Uncle Jaime took her to Braavos for that food tour, then we thought Tommen had cat scratch fever but it was just that allergy to tofu, then Uncle Jaime opened his own business, then Ser Pounce went to the cat show nationals and lost to that skanky floofball Khaleesi whatever, then I accidentally got on that train to White Harbour, then we got that one last chicken because five was an odd number. It’s been maybe a little hard to get a wedding in there.”

“Yes, I can see that. I mean, really none of those are excuses in the face of true love, but Hot Uncle Jaime and Glorious Aunt Brienne don’t really have a lot fortitude.” Marg nodded sagely.

“So what’s the plan? I want to plan. I need to plan  _ immediately. _ ” Sansa grabbed her poetry notebook from its place stuck between the sofa cushions and started to draw a Fenn diagram.

“What if we just go simple this time? Straightforward.” Marg stared at Myrcy. “We’ll plan everything, with epicness, and we just  _ tell _ them that they’re being given the perfect opportunity and have absolutely nothing to worry about?”

“I mean…I  _ love _ it, but I don’t think  _ they _ would love it. They’ll just think we’re being sneaky and up to something worse even though we’re trying  _ not _ to be sneaky. You know?” Myrcy perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of her friends. “It’s like they don’t trust us not to be planning when we aren’t even planning but now that we’ll be planning they will trust us even less and we need to plan for that.”

“Then I guess there’s no choice and we have to be sneaky!” Marg glanced at Sansa. “Dig back into your tech magic and find their schedules. We’ll have to find a wedding vision and make mood boards. Find vendors. Themes. Colors. Clothes. Flowers. Food. Cake. Lighting. Gauze. Favors. Invitations. Save the dates. Shoes. Dresses. Hair products. Supplements. Facials. Limos. Wedding lingerie, his and hers. Condoms—”

“Marg!” Myrcy and Sansa shouted at the same time.

“Right. Too much too soon. I’ve  _ never _ thought about a wedding involving Hot Uncle Jaime before. Never. Not any every detail.”

“How can we be sneaky but not sneaky but sneaky?” Sansa asked.

“Well…we can be  _ not _ sneaky by not being sneaky, but we can  _ be _ sneaky by being sneaky.” Myrcy nodded to herself. “No ulterior motives, just the real, actual motive. But we have to stealth introduce them to the plan. Like, little clues that don’t give everything away, but that show them they’re in for a treat.”

“We need a middleman working for us. Someone honest they won’t question.” Marg took another swig of gin.

“Uncle Tyrion?” Myrcy offered.

“Your Uncle Tyrion is  _ honest _ ?” Marg snorted.

“Okay fine. How about…hmm…wait, oh  _ gods!  _ Selwyn Tarth!”

“Yes, Selwyn Tarth!” Sansa shouted.

“He helped us once before, and really, he’s  _ soooo _ nice you guys! He loves us, and he’d  _ def _ want to help make a magical wedding happen!” Myrcy was confident in this approach. He’d been totally open to lying about falling off his roof when she’d asked him to stall Brienne to get engaged with more hype, so  _ surely _ he would also be totally open to scheming about a wedding even more epic than the engagement? 

Marg nodded. “Yes, that totes works, but we also need someone closer to home, someone to help seed the idea with pure innocence and altruism…”

Sansa glanced up at Myrcy and stared. “Tommen!” they said together.

“Ah, that’s the ticket!” Marg bounced in her seat. “Okay, so we have to talk to Selwyn Tarth, and we have to draw up a real, solid plan, and we have to talk to Tommen about…whatever, and we need more gin.”

Myrcy leaned forward and grinned. “Oh I know  _ exactly _ how to get Tommen to help.”

“How much time do we have before they get back from wherever they’re boning?” Marg asked, still deep in thought.

“It’s Uncle Jaime’s business thingie, something about investing in trout. Let’s see…they left yesterday, so I think they should be back in like two days?” Myrcy had no idea how long it took to drive to Riverrun and back again.

“That’s enough time to get things rolling at least.” Marg nodded. “We’ll start practicing and planning, and I think we should schedule the wedding for next month, after we’re out of class. Sansa and I have finals which will occupy two or five hours of time probably. Yes, once the semester is out, we’ll have  _ loads _ of time!”

“This is going to be epic,” Sansa whispered. “It’s endgame for the OTP, you guys. For real. End. Game.”

“Epic,” Myrcy and Marg breathed.

“And the hiatus of love is finally over.” Marg nodded to herself in satisfaction. 

“Loveeee…” Myrcy and Sansa whispered. 

 

* * *

 

Jaime felt completely boneless. Like a chicken filet. He really wished they were still allowed to eat chicken, but Tommen’s latest obsession had forced them all to pretend that they couldn’t stomach their delicious, juicy breasts. Speaking of…

He turned his head to stare at Brienne, his vision partially obscured by the edge of the fluffy hotel pillow. He felt borderline delirious, and he wasn’t even a bit drunk.

Her face was bathed in little slivers of early morning light, freckles dotting her cheek and wisps of blonde hair floating around her closed eyes. He could see how blue they were even though they were obscured. He always saw them in his mind. She had her hands scrunched around her pillow, and her engagement ring bounced the light back and forth.

Just beneath it was a very thin circle of gold. It was new. It matched the one he now wore on his only hand. They were too cheap and not quite gold enough, but they were the nicest rings he could find on the whole Quiet Isle. He’d told her he’d replace them as soon as they returned home, but she’d said over her dead body. Instead, he’d ended up over, and under, her very living body the entire night.

“Stop staring at me,” she grumbled in a sleep-thick voice.

“No.” He grinned to himself and raised his hand to drag a finger down her arm. She shivered.

“We did it,” he whispered, almost in awe.

She cracked one eye open, mischief lurking there. “Yes, we did it. More than once.”

“Did you just make a sex joke? Brienne Lannister, I’m  _ shocked _ .” He winked at her.

“Oh, I’m a Lannister now, am I? You’re so sure of yourself. Jaime Tarth.”

He lifted himself to rest on his elbow, trying to loom over her. “Jaime Tarth sounds terrible, like a two-bit realtor who wears board shorts and hair gel.”

“Quite a picture. Seems fitting.” She rose, too, and stared him straight in the eye.

“I’ll ignore that. Besides, I’ve got a business now with my name on it. Can’t very well change that.” He nipped at her lips.

“I’ve got books with my name on them. Can’t very well change that.” She licked her lip despite herself and couldn’t maintain the stare.

He felt all puffed up that he could always win the seduction game. It took so little to make her hot and bothered, even though she pretended otherwise. If she ever accepted the real power she had over him, he’d never win again.

He drew her chin back up with one finger and slowly bit his own lip. Her blush stained her skin in an instant.

“Imagine that,” he whispered in silken tones. “The only thing separating us is a name.”

She swallowed thickly, but forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s certainly not clothing.”

Oh, that wench, she  _ knew _ what those words would do to him. He really shouldn’t be so cocky about his skills, when all it took was one laden phrase from her lips and he was gone. She was flat on her back before she could take another breath.

“Jaime!”

“Hmm?” he muttered as he sucked on her bottom lip.

She turned her head slightly to break contact, even though she moaned at the loss. “We only slept for an hour!”

“No time. Things to do.” He skated his lips down her neck.

“Oh, I’m a thing now? Really.” She dragged her blunt nails over his shoulder until he shuddered.

He leaned up to look at her again. “You’re getting too good at this. I can hardly keep the upper hand.”

“I have to go out fighting. You always have the upper hand, as evidenced by the beautiful ring now on my finger.” She was still in good humor, but as her gaze strayed to her fingers, her eyes took on a dreamy quality.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

She looked back at his face. “For what?”

“For saying yes.” He couldn’t find any humor that moment, only bone-deep gratitude, a bursting heart, and undeniable lust.

“I…I wanted to.” She smiled so shyly, he really had no choice but to snog the hells out of her.

After a while, he had to see her eyes again. He chuckled as the skin of his chest created a delicious friction against hers. “I can’t believe we did it.”

“We  _ were _ engaged. But yes. I can’t believe we did it like  _ this _ .” She chuckled, too.

“It’s very unlike us.” He stroked her side until she jolted.

“It’s very unlike me. It’s not at all unlike you, Jaime. In fact, if a scenario were personified,  _ this _ would be  _ you _ . Exactly.”

“It would not! I’m very romantic! I wanted a big, loud wedding with effusive vows.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “Look me in the eye and tell me that a weekend business trip to Riverrun turned into a spontaneous wedding at the Quiet Isle Twenty-Four Hour Sept with a honeymoon tagged onto the end isn’t  _ precisely _ you.”

“Fine, you have a point,” he reluctantly admitted.

She wiggled again. “So do you.”

He pressed down on her, pinning her in place and planting a salacious kiss on her lips. “If I would have known how brazen you’d become as a married woman, I would have made sure to do it far sooner.”

“Our timing is always impeccable,” she admonished with a grin.

He was dizzying himself with his rapidly changing moods of hilarity, desire, and a weird sort of longing angst, as if he were so entangled with her on a cellular level that even his blood missed her when she was right in front of him. “I should have made time, Brienne. We  _ should _ have married sooner.”

“It’s only been a year!” She reached up to stroke his cheek. “Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. We’ve been together and stayed together. We were going to do it eventually.”

“But now you can’t leave me without getting a lawyer and signing  _ papers _ .” He didn’t know exactly why he was feeling so in need of assurance. The woman had said  _ yes _ and actually married him not even a day before.

She swallowed, glanced away, then back even though he could see it was hard for her to maintain eye contact. “I was never going to leave you, and I  _ am _ never going to leave you. And you can’t leave me. I don’t want to become a bitter pile of ash with a shattered heart, and that’s the only option if you aren’t with me. Oh gods, I sound just like Myrcy!”

“You have a long way to go before you lose  _ that _ much sense.” He kissed her and then again, and again. “I won’t. I vowed last night, and I vow again now.”

She kissed him. “A holy oath.”

He nodded. “Besides,” he tried to find his lightness because his love for her felt like a crushing weight. “I want ten more kids. Marriage is only the beginning.”

“Oh, is it now. You just want me pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen, don’t you?” She joined him in returning to a bit of emotional stability.

“Absolutely not. You’re a terrible cook.”

“I can make a serviceable pancake now!”

“It only took you two years, and Tommen has long moved on to Braavosi Toast.”

Her eyes clouded just a little. “I’m worried about Tommen, and maybe even more about Myrcy. How are we going to tell them? You know how much Myrcy wanted to be in the wedding. And Margaery and Sansa, too.” Those two girls were practically part of the family.

Jaime sighed, though he was far too distracted by the slide of his skin against hers. “Tommen will probably get over it quickly if we promise him an extension to his chicken coop. Myrcy will be mad, but only at me. Not at you. She’s never mad at you.”

“Did we rob them of it all? I don’t want them to feel left out.” Brienne sighed and bit her lip.

“Maybe we did, but it’s too late now. Sometimes we’ve got to do things just for us, and I regret nothing.” He kissed her with only a tiny bit of worry. “Do you?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I feel like I should, for them, but I don’t. I can’t.”

“Good.” He smiled. “I want you to be happy.”

“I want you to be happy, too.” She smiled back so gently he thought he thought he might actually tear up, but there wasn’t enough thought left in his head to get that far.

He skated his hand down her body until she gasped. “Right now, I just want  _ you _ .”

 

* * *

 

Brienne stood at the threshold of their house, knowing that normal life would have to resume in mere minutes. She was extremely reluctant to acknowledge that fact. The house was always one broken glass away from a runaway circus, noisy and busy and chaotic.

She wouldn’t trade one second for the world. It made the stolen moments with Jaime all the sweeter, where they could sneak away for the weekend as they just had, or hide in her office and pretend to be out until whoever was shouting for one or both of them gave up. If it wasn’t one of the children, it was Tyrion who existed in a limbo between barely living at his own apartment and not really moving in with Tysha. The solution was to wander around their house for no reason.

And even though Margaery and Sansa had a flat just off campus, they were still somehow  _ around _ . Tommen had Ser Pounce, Briann the Lizard who had grown to be an absolute monster despite previous assurances otherwise, and six chickens (all named) that lived in a coop she’d built at the side of the house. She had said no to a rooster, the only time she had ever denied Tommen.

She glanced at Jaime, knowing they would have to go in and somehow navigate the announcement that they had  _ happened _ to get married. He was already staring at her as she caught his eye. He sighed and lifted his hand toward the door.

“Ready?” he asked in a resigned tone.

“Definitely not.” She wound her arm through the crook of his elbow.

“Right.” He chuckled, and turned the key in the lock.

The door swung open.

Funny, the din from outside hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary, but without the filter of the heavy security door…

The King’s Wedding March blared from the sound system. Down the central hallway, two of the three young women who would probably always be some of “the children” were goose-stepping awkwardly away from them, swathed in toilet paper and tissue dresses. The third young woman was shouting directions. “Be less stiff! That’s not what she said! No, more hip movement!”

Briann the Lizard was curled around the bannister, licking something that looked sticky off his front foot.

And a cat waddled across the hall from the living room to the big office. A cat with a silk pillow strapped to his back and a ring made of aluminum foil taped to the top.

“Yes, that’s it, Ser Pounce. Slower…slower…perfect! You may now consume the tuna steak I have baked for you.”

Tommen stepped forward and spotted them. “Oh, hullo! We did not expect you back until tomorrow!”

The girls stopped marching and shouting. They turned with matching expressions of horror on their faces.

Tommen turned to his sister and her friends with a look of remorse. “I don’t think the surprise will be a surprise anymore.”

Jaime cleared his throat. She could feel the tension in his arm. “What  _ surprise _ would that be? Girls?”

Myrcy and Margaery and Sansa looked at one another. Myrcy stepped forward, dragging her feet and staring at the carpet. “We…were…practicing.”

Jaime didn’t bother inquiring further. It was painfully obvious. He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.

Tommen spoke, clearly and confidently. “I understand that Uncle Tyrion is probably going to be the best man, but I have studied very hard on the duties of both a groomsman and a ring bearer. I am training Ser Pounce to carry the rings on his back. I promise to use my allowance to replace your leather belt that has sadly been gnawed by both cat and lizard.”

Brienne bumped Jaime’s shoulder with hers. He looked at her, a mixture of acceptance and disappointment in his beautiful eyes. She moved her left hand to hide behind her back, and dragged Jaime’s with her right hand so both their rings wouldn’t show.

 

 


	2. In Which There is a Whistle, a Bicycle Quest, and a Recreational Vehicle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Crone Day for everyone during JB Week!
> 
> Thank you for the fabulosity of your general persons and wonderful comments. Here we begin to segue further and further into absolute nuttery...

 

“We have to tell them, but we  _ can’t  _ tell them! How does every single thing we do wind up  _ this _ complicated?!” Jaime paced in front of their bed, both of them safely ensconced in their soundproof suite.

They had claimed to be worn out from the travel and escaped the bizarre grouping of rueful-faced wedding planners. Jaime had asked Myrcy to promise that she and Tommen would eat a decent dinner, even if they had to use RedDoorDash to have pizza delivered. They had climbed the stairs with a flamboyant show of creaking bones and loud yawns.

The weariness was real…sort of…and of course Jaime had decided that they really shouldn’t go to bed without washing off the grime of a six hour car trip off, which had led him to immediately strip naked and saunter into the bathroom. She’d seen his grin reflected in the mirror, and she’d really  _ tried _ to wait long enough so he’d have to ask her to join him. She’d tried hard.

Now her bones were tired for an entirely different reason as she reclined on the bed, her hair still damp. Jaime was somehow not at all tired; he was just pacing and pacing and still quite obscenely naked.

How was she supposed to concentrate on working through their clandestine marriage snafu when her naked husband insisted on parading back and forth like some patrolling god?

She tried to distract herself with concern for the children, their inevitable disappointment and how she hated to disappoint people. Thoughts of her new book and the fear of trying to tackle a completely different genre. Briann the Lizard’s sticky foot. It wasn’t working.

It was very strange to think of him as her husband. Jaime, not the lizard. She was his wife. They had actually, finally  _ managed it, _ only to be forced to deny that anything had changed. In truth, nothing had. They wore new rings and had a few new labels to attach to their names, a slightly wrinkled certificate now stowed in the safe in the back of the closet, and apart from that…just a lot of love bites that would have happened anyway.

She shouldn’t feel different. There was nothing to feel different about. They’d been engaged for a year, they lived in the same house. They slept in the same bed. They shared the same enormous shower. Everything was exactly the same as it had been  _ before _ . And she felt different.

“Do you feel different?” she asked him, lazily, stretching in the crisp sheets like Ser Pounce doing his cat yoga.

He stopped pacing and stared at her, bit his lip and tensed his muscles. “Yes. It’s ridiculous.”

“Good different?” She leaned up on her elbows, not bothering to arrange the sheet to conceal her breasts. She had finally learned not to care.

He looked thoughtful and took a moment to answer. “I don’t know. It’s definitely not  _ bad _ different. Not even a hint. But  _ good _ different would imply that I wasn’t absurdly happy before, and I was. I just feel…new different.”

She smiled at him and sat up. “I do, too. Why?”

He chuckled and shrugged his golden, muscled shoulders. “No idea. I just…I put that ring on your finger, with great one-handed difficulty, remember? And it made me feel possessive and bloodthirsty.”

She matched his chuckle. “Bloodthirsty? Really, Jaime, what in the world?”

“Fine, maybe not exactly that, but something. Primal. I wanted to fight somebody and then fuck you against a wall.” He shrugged again, looking almost sheepish. “It was just, it was all real and  _ final.  _ You’re mine forever. It’s on paper.”

She made herself look straight at him and stretched far forward to grab his one hand. She pulled back until he hit the bed and was forced to crawl toward her until he sat in front of her. “Did you not know I was yours forever anyway?”

“Yes, wench, I did, but you were the one who asked the question. You feel different, too.” He nipped at her lips and laughed.

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to feel mysteriously different as we figure out how to manage this mess.” She let herself be kissed, but no further or nothing would be accomplished for days.

“So what do we do? Pretend it never happened and tell them we’re going to start planning the  _ real _ wedding so their practice doesn’t go to waste?” He slid down to recline and rested his head on her lap.

She twisted her fingers in his hair and let its softness soothe her, content just to sit with him so freely. “Do you want the kind of wedding they want? How would we conceal the certificate problem?”

“I wanted any kind of wedding. We just never had the time. Now we’ve had one, and it was perfect.” He sighed. “Maybe a big reception? Would they accept that?”

She tugged his hair just enough to get him to look at her. “Did you see Myrcy’s face? You know I worried about that, but seeing her today…she looked crushed that we even found out. I don’t think I can do that to her, Jaime. She’s still a little lost. We can’t take this from her. We’re going to have to get married  _ again _ .”

“Oh…bollocks.” He grumbled against her thigh. “At least we can try to manage whatever horror they’re all trying to plan.”

“Yes, I’m afraid they’ll all overreach in their desire for spectacle.” She laughed to herself, recalling the last time the girls had  _ intervened _ and recruited an entire flash mob. “Let’s hope Myrcy hasn’t already hired a hot air balloon.”

“Oh no,” Jaime groaned. “We’re going to need time though. Not much, but we’ve got to find out what they’re doing and temper it.”

Brienne thought for a moment, ever the keeper of their schedules. She somehow even knew what Margaery and Sansa would be up to, mostly because Olenna Tyrell liked her and tried to warn her if she learned of any shenanigans.

“Tommen’s school is out in three weeks. He has that cat show right after, but if we could distract them all for the summer and then let them have their wedding fun at the end, or even into fall, that’s plenty of time to manage it I think.” She nodded to herself, wondering how she’d fit her writing in, but she’d figure it out. She always did.

She glanced down at Jaime to see him staring at her with that look.  _ That _ look, not the one when he wanted to be  _ primal _ , but the one when she wondered if he could see into her very soul. “Stop that.”

“I just…you’re so willing to subject yourself to  _ another _ wedding, one guaranteed to be a complete comedy of errors, just to make the children happy.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist and kissed her pulse point, making her jolt a little. “You’re a selfless, astonishing woman.”

She blushed her most furious blush. “I’m not.” 

His smile was so full of love it hurt to look at it. “Yes you are. I think if we’ve all learned  _ anything _ in the last three years, it’s that family is made, not born. I’m not their father, but I might as well be their father now. You’re not their mother, but you might as well be. They would both agree, and you’re spectacular at it.”

She swallowed and was beginning to stammer. She stopped herself. “It’s not so bad if our biggest problem right now is being married twice.”

He kissed her wrist again, grinning. “It’s not bad at all. What a lovely problem to have.” He glanced up at her. “Which one would be our anniversary?”

She laid back against the pillows, letting him rest his cheek on her hip. “We’ll have two. The private one and the public one. We can celebrate both.”

“Publicly and privately. I like that.” He raised his head to lick his lip and grin at her lasciviously.

She had maybe five minutes, ten if she could  _ really _ find a defiant will, before they would not be talking any longer. She was shocked at her own complete lack of inhibition. “We could sneak away for the day of the private anniversary. No one could know. It would be just for us.”

He crawled up to hover over her. She might have three minutes. Maybe. “And what would we do on these secret,  _ private _ getaways?”

She stared straight into his darkening eyes. “You might want to work on your deadlifts if you have any intention of utilizing a wall.”

They didn’t even make it one more minute.

 

* * *

 

Jaime whistled his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He whistled as he poured a cup of steaming coffee and opened the fridge to rummage for the double cream Brienne kept trying to wean him from. He whistled as he slid onto a stool at the island and propped his phone on the little easel-like stand she’d found somewhere so he could read while sipping his coffee.

Three faces were staring at him from across the island when he glanced up. Myrcy looked dumbfounded. Tommen seemed amused. Ser Pounce, on his own dedicated stool, snorted.

“You’re very…awake, Uncle Jaime.” Myrcy leaned forward.

Jaime blanched. He knew it would be all over his face, that he was thinking about just how good his night…and morning…had been, and _in_ _front of the children_!

Which made him remember  _ why _ it had been so good, and what had led to that state, and why he was currently wearing his wedding ring on a thin chain around his neck, barely hidden by his tee shirt.

“Well…” he stalled, thinking and thinking long and hard, just like…

He shook his head, mostly to himself. He and Brienne had failed to construct a reasonable plan. There were just too many distractions, like miles of exposed skin. He needed to buy time. He needed some excuse to redirect the girls’ attention, at least for a few months, and school was getting out soon…

Ah. Yes. That would do. He grinned at the varied faces lined up like nesting dolls. “We’re going on holiday!”

Myrcy and Tommen looked at one another, then Tommen looked at Ser Pounce before they all turned back to Jaime.

“But Uncle Jaime, I’ve got a  _ project _ !”

“What about the chickens?”

“Mewl.”

These were not the reactions he’d expected. Now that he’d thought of it, the idea of taking a real family holiday was beyond appealing. It wouldn’t be a honeymoon exactly, not with a horde along with them, but it would be a nice break after such an insane year. He knew Myrcy’s excuse was really about leaving her friends, and Tommen’s…that could be a problem. They couldn’t exactly take chickens on holiday.

Unless…

Oh, this was brilliant. The perfect plan that would benefit  _ everyone _ . A strategy worthy of an army general.

“Uncle Tyrion is going to stay here and house sit. He’ll watch the chickens and Briann, and—”

“Briann can’t come either?!?!!?” Tommen shrieked.

Damn. “Well, Tom, Briann…it isn’t really safe for Briann to…be exposed to various temperatures.”

Tommen stared at him, eyes wide as saucers. “I know that. Can I stay here with Uncle Tyrion?”

This was supposed to be an amazing plan! Why couldn’t everyone just fall in line for once? “We’re going to…Tarth. Yes, we’re all going to spend the summer on Tarth.” Jaime hopped up from the stool and paced around the island, just to make a very enthusiastic impression. “Breathe in the pure sea air! Swim in the sapphire water! Get back to our roots! Don’t you want to see a different ecosystem, Tom?”

“Ahem, Uncle Jaime,” Myrcy interrupted, “our roots are in a mansion with marble toilets.”

Jaime stopped pacing, and grimaced at Myrcy. “ _ Way _ back to our roots. In the old days.”

“The old Lannisters were Kings, were they not?” Tommen asked with a disgruntled twist of his lip.

“Older Lannisters!” Jaime insisted.

“They started a bunch of wars, right?” Myrcy had a glint in her eye that time.

“Fine, forget roots. Tom, there are lots of animals on Tarth. Sheep and…frogs. We can learn to sail, catch some fish for Ser Pounce. Doesn’t that sound nice?” Jaime put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, trying to project an unspoken bribe.  _ Agree to this, and…something. _

“But what about my chickens and my lizard? Is Aunt Tysha going to be here, too? Because Uncle Tyrion will accidentally kill all chickens.”

This was not going well. “Myrcy, there are beautiful beaches! You like the beach, right?” Girls loved beaches. Probably. “Glittering sand, sparkling waves, a beautiful silver moon at night. What a perfect place to…relax?”

He watched Myrcy’s expression slowly transform from obstinate to intrigued to overtly gleeful. She leapt off her stool, and it almost fell over. “ _ Glittering  _ sand?  _ Sparkling  _ waves? It’s that beautiful on Tarth??!?!”

Jaime had no idea how much Myrcy loved beaches. Huh. “Well, I’ve only seen it once, and from the air, and it was stormy, but…yes. I’m sure of it. After all, Brienne is from there so it has to be amazing.”

Myrcy was grinning like a maniac. Jaime felt a tug on his sleeve.

“But what about my chickens? May I ask Brienne if we can get a chicken veterinarian to house sit?” Tommen bobbed his head toward the kitchen archway.

Before he even looked up, Jaime felt overtaken by her scent and her warmth. It was insane. She was too far away for either of those things to be possible, but he didn’t care. It was what it was, and what it  _ was _ was forming a lump in his throat and vice around his heart, and the fairly urgent desire to visit a glitter-sanded beach with her. And no children or animals. Or clothes.

Maybe Tarth had a hidden cove.

Her arms were crossed over her chest and over the ring hanging from an identical thin chain around her neck, under her shirt. Her right brow was elevated quite spectacularly as she stared at him with those entrancing baby blues…

“So we’re going to Tarth.” Her tone was a mystery, her expression to match.

Was she so displeased about his spontaneous plan that she was actually  _ mad _ at him? No, couldn’t be. She was  _ never _ actually mad, at him or at anybody. She didn’t look hurt. She didn’t look…anything. He squinted as if it would help his comprehension.

The left corner of her plush lip lifted so slightly he would have missed it if his gaze hadn’t already lingered there. She was trying not to smile. She was  _ messing _ with him, the wench. Oh, she was going to pay for this. Later.

She gave up and laughed to herself, uncrossing her arms and meandering over to him. She grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the island and bit into it, the juice glossing her lip prettily.

“Brienne, what about my chickens? And Briann? I would assume that Ser Pounce’s inclusion is not in question.” Tommen peered at her with as close to defiance as he ever got.

“Tommen, I’m quite certain your uncle would never even  _ consider _ asking you to abandon your majestic feline. Would you Jaime?” she looked at him, taking another bite of the apple without breaking eye contact.

He swallowed, even though he wasn’t eating anything. “Of…of course not. I would never.”

Brienne licked her lip and smiled, mostly at Jaime. “Then I suppose, Jaime, that you will have to arrange transportation and accommodation for four humans and one cat, and certainly ensure that the chickens and the lizard are kept in excellent health. This being your ingenious scheme.”

Jaime squirmed.

She turned to Tommen. “As it happens, my father once raised prize chickens whose descendants are now the primary egg-producers for Tarth.”

Tommen jumped straight up. “Really?!?”

“Really?” Jaime echoed in a far more disbelieving tone.

“Really.” Brienne smiled fondly. “Prize chickens as well as miniature donkeys.”

“Okay, this might be excellent! Uncle Selwyn must know a  _ lot _ about chickens!” Tommen’s demeanor was not only back to normal, but in a heightened state of intrigue.

Brienne licked her lip, guilelessly.Jaime blinked rapidly, trying to clear what he had less than one second before named the  _ wife haze _ from his eyes as he looked at his nephew/ward/child, still finding it funny how Tommen had settled on  _ Uncle _ to refer to her father. To Tommen, everyone with a difficult-to-define familial relationship was an aunt or an uncle.

Brienne leaned closer to Jaime’s ear. “Nicely done. Were you already planning this?”

He made sure his arm was pressed against hers as much as possible. “Not even a little. But I’ll accept a reward for my  _ ingenious scheme _ . How about a taste of that juice lurking on your lip?”

“Shoosh,” she admonished, but he felt the heat of her blush creep down her arm.

He tore himself away from looking at her to see Myrcy staring at them both, alternately.

“Why are you different?” She pointed her finger at them and waved it around.

Brienne immediately leaned away so their arms weren’t touching. “What do you mean?”

“Different?” He cleared his throat. “Nobody’s different.”

Myrcy’s eyes narrowed. “Did you go to the spa or something when you were in Rivverrun? You look so…chill.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so we’ve got a huge problem, but it’s maybe  _ not _ a problem, and maybe we’re better off, and maybe everything’s going to be okay?” Myrcy tried to catch her breath as she clutched her stomach. She  _ really _ needed to get her license, but she just felt so demoralized after having failed the written test six times. Who cared about kinds of lights and like...so many signs???

She’d just ridden her bicycle over to Marg and Sansa’s, run all the way up the stairs without waiting for the elevator, and burst inside without even finding out if they were home.

Marg glanced up from her position behind an enormous business desk. She slid horn-rimmed glasses from the bridge of her nose to rest becomingly on top of her head. Her study corner of the apartment looked like Grandfather Tywin’s office for some reason.

On the rose-colored sofa, Sansa had been furiously writing something in her notebook with her legs draped over Willas Tyrell’s lap.

From the small galley kitchen, the sounds of a raucous argument about cheese pairings flooded the whole apartment.

“Do you mean a bigger problem than us being discovered not even  _ one fucking day _ into our super secret project planning? That kind of problem?” Marg’s voice was so sweet it was terrifying.

“Oh, no, please  _ please _ don’t tell me you’re butting into other people’s business again.  _ Marg _ .” Willas Tyrell’s tone was as weary as his lanky body appeared to be.

“Fine, we won’t tell you. Why are you still here anyway?” Marg stuck her tongue out at her brother.

“He’s with me, obvs.” Sansa shrugged.

“He’s always with you. I want you to be my flatmate, not my brother. Or  _ any _ of them!” Marg shouted at the direction of the kitchen. Ah, the cheese argument was being perpetuated by Loras Tyrell, which meant Renly was there, too.

Sometimes, Myrcy forgot that Renly Baratheon was  _ her _ actual real uncle and not one of Marg’s brothers, because really that made a lot more sense somehow.

“Okay, so…the  _ project _ is still a go. Threat level scarlet or whatever. Uncle Jaime wants to take everybody on this family holiday thing, to  _ Tarth _ , so I mean…there’s supposed to be glitter beaches and moonlight and stuff. I mean… _ you know _ ?!?”

Marg sent her leather desk chair spinning around as she rose so quickly. “Noooooo!”

“What? Why?” Myrcy shrieked.

“What is happening  _ now _ ?!?!” Sansa wailed.

“Shush my darling, else your fluttering heart will prove too rapid for oxygen.” Willas sat up and took Sansa’s hand in his, petting it like a baby rabbit.

“Okay,” Sansa agreed, apparently distracted by Willas’ attentions.

“What’s the matter, Marg?” Myrcy prodded.

Marg draped herself over her shiny desk, arms hanging over the long side. “I just found out that Grandmother is sending me to some business training seminar is fucking  _ Asshai _ ! For like… _ weeks _ ! So what if eastern trade is the future! So. Fucking. What!!!”

“Oh wait, something’s  _ happening _ ?” Sansa bolted up, leaving Willas tipping over on the sofa. “But nothing can  _ happen _ ! Willas and I just got our first gig inside and  _ outside _ a coffeehouse as an acoustic folk duo! We’re going over to Highgarden right after finals!”

Myrcy just stared, first at Marg and then at Sansa. Then she collapsed to the carpet and squiggled until her butt found its carpet home. “Why does no one ever tell me  _ anything _ anymore! Just because I don’t live here and go to uni and braid people’s hair doesn’t mean I’m  _ nothing _ !”

“Myrcy, really! I  _ just _ found out! I had my texting thumbs ready and everything!” Marg darted over to wrap herself around Myrcy.

Sansa plopped down into the friend lump. “And Willas and I  _ just _ found out late last night, and we weren’t even sure until like, twenty minutes ago!”

“Okay, okay…” Myrcy snorted. “But what about the  _ project _ now?!?! Is  _ has _ happen!”

“It’s not ideal, but it will have to wait until the end of summer.” Marg tried to sound commanding, but it came out weak at best.

“What if summer lasts like forty years or something?” Sansa wailed.

The swinging kitchen door slammed against the wall as Loras and Renly marched in, each carrying two silver platters filled with cubes of cheese.

“Oh no,” Loras groaned. “It’s the estrogen monster. I thought you’d all grown out of this.”

“Shut the fuck up, slack-balled hosebeast!” Marg kicked at the air in the general direction of her brother.

“They’ll never grow out of it,” Willas sighed and shook his head.

“Renly, do I have slack balls?” Loras fumed.

“I don’t know what that means, but absolutely not.” Renly nodded over his platters.

Myrcy sniffed mightily, the comfort of her friends’ angst filling her with nostalgia. “Remember when we read Brienne’s first book, you guys? Remember chapter fourteen, and the  _ feelz _ ??!?!!”

“Oh gods!” Sansa wept.

“Never will we forget! And Book Two Chapter Six! And Book Three Chapter 17!” Marg rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“The Endgame,” Myrcy whispered.

“The Endgame,” Marg and Sansa matched.

“Oh fuck it!” Marg sat up hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s happening. We don’t have to wait  _ that _ long, really. Just a few months. We still have to plan, and Myrcy, you can talk to GrandPlanner Selwyn now for real!”

“That’s true,” Myrcy agreed. “But you won’t be there. Neither of you! I’ll be all alone with two horny adults, one sort of grandfather type person, one weird little brother, and one obese cat.

“We’ll text every minute!” Sansa promised.

“We have to vidchat,  _ nonstop _ ! I won’t survive in Asshai otherwise!” Marg wailed, almost like Sansa.

“Oh gods! This is the first time in like, eighty-four years that we won’t be together!” Myrcy borderline screamed.

Marg grew suddenly silent and crawled over to Myrcy, clutching her cheeks between damp palms. All the mascara in the room was utterly devastated. “Myrcy, sweet Myrcy…find yourself,” Marg whispered in a deadly tone. “We will all plan, and we will all be apart, growing up and shit. It will be horrifying. A true test of strength, and we might not survive. But you must  _ find yourself _ .” The tone dropped even further into a deep baritone. “You will be the best of us.”

The weighty silence of truth and the bonds of hearts in friendship flooded into Myrcy’s chest and coated her spine in the steel of fortitude.

“We will be all together once more, beautiful butterflies.” Myrcy nodded at no one in particular, taking Sansa’s shaking hand in hers.

“I don’t want to know what’s happening, ever again!” she wailed.

“This is the most fucked-up nonsense I’ve ever seen!” Loras groaned.

 

* * *

 

Jaime nodded in satisfaction as he stared at the enormous RV parked by the curb of their house. It might not be the perfect solution, but it would  _ work _ . Of course, he sort of wished he’d considered that Brienne would have to drive it the whole five hours to Tarth. A one-handed man wasn’t really a safe alternative when it came to a monster vehicle.

She stood next to him, her hand in his. “It’s…fine. Not that big. I can handle it.”

He chuckled to himself, giddy still despite the three weeks, six days, and sixteen hours that had passed since their secret wedding. “You can handle anything. Anything you want.”

She looked at him with that particular look of  _ trying _ to be disdainful but secretly finding him hilarious.

“Brienne? Where is Briann the Lizard’s vomit towel?” Tommen stopped in front of them with Briann wrapped around his narrow shoulders. The thing was  _ huge _ . Jaime had no idea how Ser Pounce and Briann managed to get along.

“It’s been washed and is on the pet shelf in the laundry room with Briann’s foot towel and Briann’s sleeping towel.”

“Oh, thank you. I will show Aunt Tysha where the shelf is.” Tommen kept popping in and out of the house, solely because the idea of tearing himself away from Briann the Lizard was appalling.

Myrcy was down the sidewalk, wrapped in the arms of her shaking friends. They all seemed to be in abject despair, a situation Jaime wasn’t approaching with a fifty-foot pole. Brienne glanced at Jaime and pulled her hand away, nodding to indicate that she was going to speak to the group of sanitarium patients. He watched her walk away, and he watched her grant her sweetest smile to the girls.

“This is a terrible, horrible idea, brother. You know that, right?” From Jaime’s non-Brienne side, Tyrion came to stand, looking up with an expression of deep concern for sanity.

“Oh probably.” Jaime shrugged with his still-jovial smile making his cheeks hurt.

“But you don’t care.” Tyrion nodded.

“I don’t care.”

“Because you’re  _ in love _ .” Tyrion bumped Jaime’s hip with his shoulder.

“Why yes, however did you discern the reason?” Jaime chuckled. “It’s wonderful. You should try it.”

Tyrion looked at the pavement. “Maybe I have.”

Jaime’s brows rose. Tyrion’s tone was…different. Almost sad. “Well…are you unsure?”

Tyrion gaze snapped up. “No. Not at all.”

Jaime examined his brother’s stormy eyes. “Ah, I see. This is make it or break it, no?”

Tyrion nodded. “Yes, I think it is.”

Jaime had thought that asking Tyrion to house sit for the entire summer would be daunting, but Tyrion had surprised him with quick acceptance, not even claiming to be owed a Lannister  _ debt _ . It seemed that his poor brother and Tysha the Bookseller were at something of an impasse, both of them being incredibly stubborn and too sarcastic to understand normal human words. Sort of like Jaime. Tyrion had hoped that if he asked Tysha to house sit with him, it would be a trial to see where their relationship was going. Jaime had felt nothing but relief considering that Tysha’s presence would be a far greater assurance of the chickens’ survival.

Now it seemed that Tyrion had kept a few notable things from him

“Then good luck, dear brother.” Jaime crouched down to hug Tyrion, both of them laughing at the awkward poses of a one-handed hugger and a very short hug-ee.

When Jaime stood, he adopted a very stern frown. “And don’t you dare break into my bedroom. It’s locked. With sensors.”

“Now why in the world would I do that?” Tyrion cackled.

“You would definitely do that, and I will hunt you down if you defile my sacred space with my w…woman.” Jaime knew he was going to break at some point, probably soon.

“Your  _ woman _ ? Really? Does Brienne still kiss you despite that barbaric mind of yours?”

Jaime’s grin was downright lascivious.

Tyrion looked away. “Don’t answer that.”

Brienne had finally torn Myrcy away from her symbionts, and had a sturdy arm wrapped about the girl until she could get her safely up in to the RV. Tysha came out of the house, with Briann slung around  _ her  _ neck now, and Tommen behind her with Ser Pounce strapped safely into his Baby Tormund harness.

“Thank you, Aunt Tysha.” Tommen smiled sweetly and went to find his seat.

_ Aunt _ Tysha blushed, and she never blushed. Jaime watched her, eyes darting away, tiny shy smile lurking at the corner of her mouth.

Tysha was a boisterous, friendly, tiny bundle of energy. She was the complete opposite of his Brienne, physiologically and in personality, but in that moment, Tysha looked  _ so  _ like Brienne had in their early days, when Brienne hadn’t quite believed that she was the subject of a very overwhelmed, borderline crazy, one-handed man’s absolute affection.

He glanced at his wife, waiting at the narrow door of the RV. She wasn’t the one blushing and averting her gaze anymore. She smiled at him with the depth of many shared memories, reaching up to tap the spot between her breasts where her ring hung from the gold chain. She flashed a lightning-quick glance at Tyrion and Tysha standing on the pavement, then back at Jaime, a thousand words of commentary in that one look. He blinked. She shrugged and turned to climb into the RV to take the driver’s seat.

He would almost miss those early days of shy stammering and held-back feelings, but what he had now was priceless.

Tyrion had taken Tysha’s hand as they both waved to everyone in the RV.

Jaime leaned down one more time, murmuring into his brother’s ear. “When you know, you know.”

 


	3. In Which There is a Plastic Stick, a Chicken Cam, and a Surprise Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and love! 
> 
> Mikki, here's your Skype-sesh. Or rather...Hype, because this is stupidland. Bwahahaha.

 

Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister had never had such a miserable time in her whole entire life.

Fine, fine, second-most miserable.

Or third. Tenth. She wasn’t really sure, except that she knew this was the most  _ boring _ month in the history of the world. She was all alone in the cold, soulless world, and there absolutely  _ no _ movement on the  _ project _ . 

None.

Love was still on hiatus. She was dying inside.

Heavy footsteps thudded in the sand behind her. She didn’t really want to talk to  _ anyone  _ about anything ever, but if she had to, at least it was Selwyn Tarth.

“Staring into the sea again, Myrcella? Is it telling you its stories?” He eased himself down to the sand next to her. “

She looked  _ way _ up at Precious Unicorn Brienne’s precious man-unicorn father who was like, twenty feet tall. She tried to smile.

The tears came pouring out like a gushing broken faucet that no plumber would ever be able to fix. She bawled and bawled, sucking in deep salty sea breaths that made her nostrils sting. She thought she might be hyperventilating even. She might even die from the breathing. Could someone die of breathing? Or did they have to be not breathing? Now she was worried about breathing and not breathing, so she cried harder.

Selwyn Tarth’s giant tree-branch arm settled over her shoulders. “Now, now, little sapling, tell old Selwyn your troubles.”

Through the jelly-like haze of her feels sog, Myrcy peered at kindly old Selwyn’s jolly sunburnt face. She cried harder and flung herself against him to bury her face in his old-man smelling fishing vest. Fortunately, all those weird hooks weren’t there this time.

She only had one grandfather, and Tywin Lannister had never put his arm over her shoulders even once, or hugged her  _ ever _ , or called her little sapling or  _ anything _ other than her name that sounded like a punishment somehow. Her other grandfather had died before she was born, and then her father who had  _ not _ been awesome, and her Uncle Stannis was just plain nuts, and maybe the most rigid man ever. His wife, her Aunt Selyse, had not left her house in ten years, though she sent pics sometimes of her scary Reborner collection. Stannis’ girlfriend was some kind of witch stripper who had a burlesque and potion-making Viewtube channel she wasn’t supposed to know about. Renly was basically just another one of Marg’s brothers. They both forgot they were even related most of the time. Only like five percent of her blood relatives even probably  _ liked _ her. 

And her mother…Myrcy’s tears felt like lemon juice burning her delicate complexion. Her  _ mother _ was just awful. It was kinda hurtful to have a super terrible mother. She and Tommen hadn’t even heard from her in like, two years. She hadn’t even shown up at the hearing to settle Tom’s adoption papers. 

Myrcy was completely aimless and worthless as a lady human. She only knew how to make vegan coffee beverages and patch fishnet brocade into the knees of ancient denim. She could make an on-fleek Viewtube walking tour, but what was that worth?!?!?

As she wept into a fishy, cedar-y canvas vest encircled by a very nice old person who patted her back and offered her a hankie, she felt all coiled up inside, thinking about what she did not have, and what she  _ did  _ have.

She had Uncle Tyrion who may not be responsible-ish most of the time, but she knew he cared about her and Tommen and did the best he could to make up for the rest of their terrible family. He was totes in love with Tysha, who was like seventy percent as cool as Brienne. Tysha never seemed to mind how much pandemonium they all made around her. Maybe after she she completed the  _ project _ and got Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne married off, she could work on Uncle Tyrion…

She had  _ them,  _ the perfect creatures of love and beauty and perfection, and she had Tommen and his menagerie, and she had Marg and Sansa, but they were basically leaving her behind as they had become successful, beautiful supermodels with genius IQs, perfect wardrobes, pretty much like advanced degrees, and a total lack of social awkwardness. They had only vidchatted through Hype like, twice a day! They were counting on her to make the project happen. She had let them down because she was nothing and no one and worthless and not a supermodel and she had no IQ at all and she’d never even taken a college class and she was stuck on an island with no resources and no access to artisanal cheesecake.

And she cried  _ harder _ because of her lack of progress. She was stalled. Stunted. Impotent like those weird dudes in the prescription commercials. The OTP  _ needed _ to be married or maybe the world would end! Nothing she had ever done would ever matter! Love would  _ never _ have a happy ending!

“I…just…want them…to…get married!!!” she wetly wailed.

Selwyn Tarth chuckled, making the rough cloth of his vest scratch against her cheek. “Well, me too, but they weren’t taking the hints, dearie, and they sure are distracted.”

“I… _ know _ !” They really had been  _ very _ frustrating, always going on long hikes or out on the sailboat, or inspecting the bales of hay in the loft of Selwyn’s barn that he rented out to house the local miniature donkeys. Apparently, hay could get moldy  _ really _ fast, so it had to be inspected a lot. She momentarily wondered what happened to the hay that  _ had _ molded...

They were all wrapped up in their own smiles and just couldn’t get how important it was to be manipulated into having a wedding!

“Now there little sapling, those two oblivious lovebirds failing to comply with your plans isn’t really what’s making you cry the whole sea out of your eyes, is it?” Selwyn gently pushed Myrcy back so he could look at her face and dab her snot with the hankie.

“N..no!” she wailed again. “I wish my mother was Brienne, and my grandfather was  _ you _ , and my real father was Uncle Jaime, and my friends weren’t abandoning me, and my life wasn’t really stupid like some hater war on Fumblr!”

Selwyn Tarth’s ruddy face turned ruddier. He could blush almost as well as Brienne! So that’s where she got it from…

“That’s about the nicest thing anybody’s said to me.” He cleared his throat and it sounded like a diesel engine. “I can presume that our Brienne would feel about as flummoxed as I do, and she would love to hear you say that. My girl isn’t your mother by blood, that’s true, and your blood mother is out there being a damned bloody fool and missing out on seeing you grow up into a lovely, kind young lady. That’s her loss. Don’t you think everybody wants to miss out though. Plenty of people love the peaches out of you, and your Uncle Jaime would smackdown a fire-breathing dragon for you, with the rest of us right behind. You got good people backing you, missy. And I would be honored to be a kind of grandfather to you. We might not have gotten those fools married yet, but we’re all family anyway. Never forget that.”

Myrcy blinked rapidly and thought she might be choking on seagull feathers or something. She threw her arms around Selwyn’s neck. “You’ll let me adopt you? Can Tommen adopt you, too? He thinks you’re a chicken genius!”

“Of course, if he wants. I’ll make us all fish ‘n chips from the morning catch, and we’ll scratch your names into the doorframe under Brienne’s. Tarth’s have been defacing that that door since my granddaddy was a wee lad.”

She sniffed and looked at him again. “But we’re not Tarths?”

“Oh, doesn’t matter. Told you didn’t I, we’re all family now.” He leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll tell you a secret…I worried about my girl just like you’re worrying about everything right now. I worried she wouldn’t be happy, and now look what I get? She’s the happiest I’ve ever seen anybody be, and your Uncle Jaime has a pretty unhealthy addiction to her company that I’m quite pleased about. So she found him, and she gets a built-in family to boot! How about that. If it were up to me, we’d get that wedding on the books with a cheap ceremony on the beach and a potluck, and spend all that Lannister money on a big old house right here on Tarth. I don’t really want any of you to leave! Gives an old man a little energy to see all you crazy people running around.”

Myrcy really  _ was _ super bored, but maybe if she could work on being less stupid and upset, it could get better. At that moment at least, she didn’t want to leave Selwyn all alone again. “Could…could you help me? With the wedding? The beach really is so beautiful, and I just want to do something special for them.”

“So what you’re really saying is that you want to go from passive hints about getting married and leaving origami doves on their breakfast plates to getting the ball rolling?” He winked at her.

“Yes. Exactly. Not just rolling, but like…bulldozing. Just… _ make it happen. _ ”

Selwyn clasped his hands and twiddled his thumbs, an expression of glee on his face. “Brienne might not even hate it if we can convince her to follow in her mother’s footsteps. We were married right there on that beach. Where that big driftwood log is now. You know, that old septon is still here on the island. I’ll go talk to him and get him on call. Once we get them on that beach, gotta move quick.”

“Oh, I’ll sweep the beach and make it prettier, and do all the things that are things that need to be done!” Finally, maybe, there was some hope.

“I’ll try to get Brienne to start thinking about the idea. Use the old dad card of  _ don’t you want to make an honest man of Jaime _ ? Or some balderdash. As long as she’s feeling less peaked. All those oysters are making her nauseous, I think.”

Myrcy’s face fell as she remembered how Brienne had been feeling a little off the last week.

“Now little sapling…about those friends of yours. I see you chatting with them, so I don’t think they’re abandoning you. But you’re the sort to come running when anybody else needs you. Tell them you’re lonely and you need them, and that I need those lemon bars you all keep promising me. If they don’t come running…well, I might have to send your Uncle Jaime after them. I’d do it myself, but he hasn’t got old man joints yet.”

“But he’s  _ forty _ !”

Selwyn laughed a loud, rolling laugh. “Then he’s positively ancient!”  
  


 

* * *

  
Brienne Tarth-maybe-Lannister-probably-Tarth sat on the floor with her back against the bathtub. The locked bathroom offered complete privacy, hidden as it was in the locked guest room at the top of the huge holiday house Jaime had rented for the summer. It was right next to her father’s place, the centuries-old small manor that had housed the Tarth family after the ancient castle had crumbled. 

It had taken her the entire week of feeling poorly in the mornings to realize exactly what was happening. She’d just thought she’d gotten food poisoning from the oyster shack in town, or the flu, or even some food allergy. But that morning, after seven straight days of what she now understood to be morning sickness, she had  _ known _ .

It had been over breakfast on the porch. Jaime was shoveling in pancakes while Myrcy Hyped with her friends. Tommen had finished breakfast and sat on the steps, watching Ser Pounce strut in the grass with his long velvet leash dragging in the dirt.

The sleek female feral cat that lived in the miniature donkey barn had taken to observing Ser Pounce from afar. Ser Pounce, being content with Tommen’s affection and the occasional tuna steak, had not noticed for at least a week. But once he’d noticed…the poor, paunchy little peacock strutted about on his own catwalk with an erect tail pointing toward  _ her _ .

They had all been variously entertained and annoyed by the mewling, hissing, creatures with longing stares.  _ That _ morning, Tommen had made a comment.

“I would consider the idea of breeding Ser Pounce with a mate of his choosing in order to continue his superior genetic legacy, but I’m afraid that he is choosing that feral cat of inferior stock, and I would also not like to see her alone in a barn while pregnant.”

The word had rung in her ears like a bell.  _ Pregnant…pregnant…PREGNANT. _

She’d nearly dropped her stomach-soothing peppermint tea. She’d excused herself, smiling tensely when Jaime had looked up at her with concern written on his beautiful face. She’d darted up to the unused guestroom and had taken several moments to pace, stare intensely at absolutely nothing, draw the fabric of her shirt tightly over her stomach to see if there were a gigantic alteration to her person, and plop on the bed in a state of complete shock.

She had quickly come to her senses, and had texted Jaime that she was going into town to pick up  _ things _ , which usually meant  _ lady things _ . She hadn’t exactly  _ fibbed _ . She  _ had  _ needed to purchase lady things. Thing. A thing for ladies.

She had driven exactly five miles above the speed limit to return to the house, somehow managing to evade Jaime who was telecommuting from the gazebo that overlooked the water, and everyone else, all of them nowhere to be seen which she would find suspicious under less occupying circumstances. 

The test had been taken. The stick had been examined after the appropriate time, and Brienne had slid down the wall to sit on the tile against the tub.

She stared at the two symbols of her new life, and she felt completely at peace. She interrogated herself quite thoroughly in order to be sure. Yes, there was definitely still some shock about the whole thing, though it really  _ shouldn’t _ be such a surprise considering the outrageous amount of sex they had been having (the  _ woods _ for the gods’ sake, her father’s sailboat more times than she could count by then, and the loft in the miniature donkey barn with its surprisingly soft bales of hay, and those were just in the daytime!).

This was the most expectable outcome of their situation. She just hadn’t expected that outcome for  _ her _ , not since she’d been a fanciful child, maybe a little older than Tommen, but certainly younger than Myrcy. Thirteen, that was it. She had not been fanciful since she was thirteen. That was when she’d learned how cruel people could be, and she’d redirected her dreams into her stories. They had become her fictional world. Her real world was vastly superior now. 

One of these days, she’d have to genuinely thank those three crazy girls, just for being themselves. Despite Jaime’s constant watchfulness over their antics, and his worry for Myrcy, and despite her own sort of fond if hesitant outlook on their energetic love for love, she, Brienne-Tarth-Lannister-Tarth would not be sitting against a bathtub, grinning like an idiot as she imagined the look on Jaime’s face when she told him. 

If she found herself elated, he would probably hire every marching band in Westeros just to celebrate. His proxy excitement made her blush with the giddiness of it. He already was the most wonderful father she could possibly imagine, even if he had a real clueless streak. 

The struggle was  _ how _ to tell him. The obvious solution was to go down to the gazebo, ensure that his laptop was not in danger of being thrown to the ground when he inevitably leapt up, and just  _ say  _ it. Then they would tell everyone else together. That was the sane, normal solution.

But Jaime deserved more. Jaime deserved everything. He loved big, grand gestures. He was always coming up with mortifying plans to shower her with affection, like at the oyster shack last week when he’d had both the waiters serenade her with some bastardized song  _ Oyster gonna be my girl _ .

She could still hear him chortling with glee in her mind. Yes, he deserved a huge, insane announcement. For once, she could do that for him.

Her writing had seriously suffered on this holiday. Her plans of drafting a slightly-gritty-but-not quite-cozy historical crime novel filled with clever twists had yet to produce real results, and she was gravely in need of practice when it came to crafting clues. She thought of all the crime novels she’d read in preparation, all those treasure hunts and hidden letters left by vanished witnesses…yes. That was it. She would wrap her pregnancy test in a nice box and hide it somewhere, and she would write a scavenger hunt to lead Jaime to it.

Brienne rose, stretching her stiff limbs and sore back, and her grin had not faded. She would have each clue lead Jaime to a spot on Tarth that had been important to her growing up, until he reached the final place where he would find the test and realize they were going to have a child.

She placed one hand over her stomach, knowing there was absolutely nothing to feel except possibly some oyster gas, but it was enough. Myrcy and the girls might actually go mad when she told them there was a tall, awkward baby on the way.  
  


* * *

 

Myrcy sat on the wicker couch thing on the porch, next to Tommen. Waiting. And waiting.

She had decided to ask Sansa to visit her, but  _ only _ if she could get away from her acoustic folk gig for a few days. She hoped her desperation hadn’t made her fifty-eight messages sound crazy.

But Sansa had  _ not _ replied. It had been thirty-five minutes. It was absolutely unheard of! Marg would have responded! Myrcy had only asked Sansa first because she was closer and Grandfather Selwyn liked her lemon bars, and Grandfather Selwyn deserved all the good things and not cheap Girl Guide’s of the Stormlands fake lemon cookies. And anyway, It was a  _ lot _ harder to get out of Asshai.

As she waited, she watched Tom log in to Hype with his chickens, Ser Pounce asleep on his lap.

After a lot of begging by a very cute-faced Tommen who was learning way too much about manipulating people, Uncle Tyrion had set up cams in front of the chicken coop. Tom could see all six of them at once, and they could see him as he cooed at them to lay nice fat eggs and behave themselves.

“No, Walda, please don’t peck the bars or you’ll hurt your beak! That was nice of you, Black Walda, to push those mealworms into Red Walda’s cage. Big Walda! Stop trying to attack Little Walda! She’s  _ little _ !”

Uncle Tyrion’s voice boomed from somewhere in the cam vicinity. “Tommen, is it normal for…that one Walda in the lower left cage to have purple poop?”

“That’s Hodorella!” Tommen scrunched his face up in dismay. “Did you feed her shavings from a purple carrot?”

“Are chickens supposed to eat carrots?” Tysha’s voice joined Uncle Tyrion’s.

“Yes, but they should be cooked, mashed, and seasoned with oregano.” Tommen began to sound distressed that he wasn’t there to oversee the meal preparation himself.

“I gave them their baggie of grapes a little early today,” Tysha sounded super apologetic. “They were clucking a lot, and I couldn’t get them to calm down unless I fed them grapes and showed them your picture.”

Tommen narrowed his eyes even though only the chickens could see him. “Have you given Hodorella extra grapes?”

Myrcy could hear Uncle Tyrion clear his throat. “Um, no…no I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean you don’t think so?!?” Tommen jumped in his seat, making Ser Pounce grumble and move to settle on the cushion.

“Well,” Tysha’s nice voice tried so hard to be soothing. “They all…look…exactlythesame.”

Uncle Tyrion rushed in. “When they come to get the grapes, they really all look the same and we can’t tell them apart to see who’s getting the grapes!”

“You can’t  _ tell them apart _ ?!?!?!” Tommen shouted.

“Tom,” Myrcy placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder, “ _ nobody _ can tell them apart. Only you, because they’re your special chickens. They do look the same to the rest of us.”

“How dare you!” Tommen jabbed his finger first at Myrcy then at the laptop screen. “Red Walda has a ginger spot the size of an eraser head under her left wing!”

Myrcy could hear Uncle Tyrion cracking up, but Tysha was still trying to be nice. “And…Black Walda? They’ll all black.”

“Black Walda is always in a bad mood!”

Myrcy feared that Uncle Tyrion might hyperventilate. “Hey Tom, which one is Hodorella?”

“By the gods, Uncle Tyrion! She’s the prettiest one with the purple poop, obviously!” Tommen was the most agitated Myrcy had seen him in a long while. “I cannot believe this! Brienne can tell them apart!”

Myrcy cleared her throat. “You know, Tom, it’s really nice of Uncle Tyrion and Tysha to house sit for us and watch all the chickens and take care of Briann. You can even Hype them. Not everybody would do that.”

She realized how true that was as she spoke the words, and remembered to be grateful about  _ some _ of her relatives.

Tommen was still and silent for a moment, but then he let out a noise  _ almost _ like one of Sansa’s wails. “I just miss my pets! All the Waldas! And Briann the Lizard! Briiiii…aannn!”

“Oh no!” Tysha shrieked from off camera, and it sounded like she was rushing away somewhere.

One of the chicken cams spun around to show Uncle Tyrion’s scrunched up, worried face, his nose gigantic as it was almost touching the lens. “He can’t hear your voice, Tom! Tysha tried to play that lullaby you recorded, and he freaked the fuck out! The frick out…freaked the freak out with the fucking...freaking sticky foot that won’t go away!”

“Oh no Briann…” Tommen whispered now. “I have to come home!”

Myrcy froze. They could  _ not _ go home! Not now, when she was finally getting things rolling again!

She shook her head frantically, hoping Uncle Tyrion would see.

He did. “Um…okay, well…”

The sound of a scuffle echoed behind the camera, and Tyrion turned, still holding the lens toward his face. In the background, Myrcy caught flashing glimpses of Tysha darting from place to place, and gigantic Briann the Lizard evading her as he ran around the yard.

She looked at Tommen who had a little teardrop lurking at the corner of his eye. “Briannnnnn….”

Is was as if the stupid lizard had superhero ears. Briann stopped in his tracks, redirected course, and headed straight for Uncle Tyrion and the camera.

Ser Pounce climbed back up in Tommen’s lap and watched the feed.

“No! Back! You’re slimy!...Fuck!” Uncle Tyrion got tackled and fell over, the camera tumbling to the grass as Briann’s blue body climbed over him. The lizard peered into the camera and stuck out his long tongue to lick it.

Tommen cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Briann the Lizard.”

Ser Pounce raised one paw and batted at the laptop.

Briann the Lizard cried. It was a horrible, squeaky cawing sound, like a cat-bird, but a lizard.

“Oh no, Briann!” and it was Myrcy who said it this time.

“Ha, gotcha!” Uncle Tyrion’s arms wrapped around Briann’s squirmy body.

“I have his leash!” Tysha yelled.

“He looks very pale!” Tommen shouted.

Briann cried louder and wrangled out of Tyrion’s grasp, disappearing from the feed.

“Fuck!”

“I can’t get him!” Tysha yelled.

There was a huge splashing noise.

“He’s in the pool!” Uncle Tyrion cursed more.

“Briann can’t swim!!!!!!” Tommen shrieked.

“The fucking lizard is committing suicide!” Uncle Tyrion sounded genuinely distressed, but also out of breath.

“Save him!” Myrcy demanded.

Another, bigger, splashing sound. Uncle Tyrion rolled away, and then they could see his feet as he ran off. The edge of the pool was  _ just _ visible, and they watched as Tysha climbed out, pulling on a flamingo floatie where Briann was perched, still wailing like Sansa. Uncle Tyrion helped her out, then Briann, and Tysha put the leash on him and then picked him up. Briann, not Uncle Tyrion.

She sat on the grass, soaking wet in her pretty flowered dress, her mascara dripping down her cheeks. Briann licked her arm but continued to cry. Uncle Tyrion plopped down beside them, putting an arm around Tysha. He looked into the fallen camera.

“Briann is okay. We’ll take him straight to the vet, okay Tom?”

Tommen was now crying, too. “O…okay. Thank you Aunt Tysha, for saving Briann the Lizard, because if he were not saved, I would not be able to eat anymore and might die.”

Myrcy wrapped her arms around her brother. “It’s okay Tom. Everything’s okay, and we’re going to have to find a really nice present for Tysha and Uncle Tyrion, don’t you think?”

Tommen blinked rapidly, then cracked a damp smile. “I know! A framed picture of Briann!”

It took a moment, but Uncle Tyrion laid back in the grass and shook with laughter.  
  


* * *

 

Jaime was worried. Actually, genuinely worried. It felt like his gut was being torn out, even though Brienne was the one who was vomiting in the mornings. Just like Briann the Lizard.

By the time he’d seen her text and had leapt up from his comfortable wicker armchair in the gazebo, she’d already taken the car to town. He could run after her, or use the too-short bicycle leaning against the side of the house, but he’d never catch up with her. She’d find him on the road and roll her eyes at his idiocy.

This was the seventh straight day in a row when she’d been ill after breakfast. That was  _ not _ okay. Biology should be aware that it was acting against his wishes. She should be in perfect health at all times. She always had been really, except for the occasional mild cold and an allergy to ragweed.

Hmm, maybe his offhand suggestion of a food allergy from a few days before had some merit. He’d only been running through a mental list of possible nausea causes. Later, he’d searched on WebMaester and almost had a panic attack since that fucking website’s answer to any symptom was g _ o to the emergency room, you’re dying! _

He was not proud to consider how much he’d utterly freaked out. Did she have lizard pox? Some island mosquito-born wasting disease that would steal all the light from his life and leave him in a walking state of despair for the rest of his days?!?!? He was feeling as desperate as Myrcy.

Selwyn Tarth was a very good man. He had caught Jaime in his lowest panicked state and talked some sense into him, suggesting instead that the oyster shack was the culprit, and they had been snacking there every few days to boot.

Selwyn had reminded him how strong and healthy Brienne was, and even though her symptoms were unusual, it was probably either foodborn or some  _ lady _ thing she was going through, and not to worry. 

But he was right. Jaime should not worry. Too much. He stared up at the window of their room in the rented house, knowing she was furiously typing away after having a bout of late afternoon inspiration. He had been distracting her too much, even though she hadn’t seemed to mind.

She was feeling better at least. He would keep a watchful eye out in the morning, and if she were nauseous again, time for medical intervention. He’d drag her off by the Lannister helicopter if he had to.

Odd, how it was only after breakfast. It really  _ had _ to be something she ate. Except she wasn’t really eating breakfast because she was already nauseous, so the night before…

Ah, their late-night, post-sex snack! They had gotten into the habit at home, sneaking down to the kitchen for freezer waffles, or cereal, or cold pizza. They usually worked up quite the appetites after all. At the beach house, they had munched almost exclusively on Selwyn’s butter biscuits, of which there was always a fresh supply.

Too much fat? Too many carbs? That  _ would _ explain it, if she’d developed a sudden gluten allergy. Jaime didn’t know much about that, but he knew that Margaery Tyrell and her brother, and Renly, and Catelyn Stark were all off gluten. Maybe he could ask one of them…no. There was no one sane to ask.

Brienne would be loathe to give up  _ any _ food group. She might not love to cook, but she loved to eat, savoring flavors and textures, and almost crossing her eyes when eating a slice of fluffy cheesecake. Since they’d been together, fluffy cheesecake had been immediately followed by sex.

He would have to experiment without her knowledge…replace the biscuits with gluten free versions. But he would see. Arrange for the doctor first, then sneak around with food alternatives.

Bloody hells, he missed her too much. He knew he was done trying to telecommute anyway, because his concentration was nonexistent. He had not considered before this trip how advantageous it was to own his business. Delegating was a wonderful thing! A quick message to his second-in-command Adam, and he was off. He would see how Brienne was feeling, then ask if she wanted to walk along the beach before dinner.

She was wearing that blue shirt he loved. Before she’d gone off to write, she’d shouted at him from the window not to forget to eat lunch, and she’d looked positively glowing, her smile wide and happy, her eyes reflecting the matching sea from beyond the island. She was a goddess. He wanted to hold her in his arms and kiss her, strip her naked, crawl into her heart and shackle himself there.

He never wanted to leave Tarth. If not for Tommen’s animal-angst and Myrcy’s wilted expression from being away from her friends, they would all be blissful there. It was quiet and perfect, none of the bustle and grime of the city. Brienne was so free and so delighted to show him where she had grown up. It was a great place for kids if only Tom would stop worrying about those blasted Walda chickens.

He stepped into the house and felt his heart race just from the idea of seeing her in a few moments. He climbed the stairs, thinking of blue shirts and children and gluten.  
  


* * *

 

Myrcy and Tommen darted around the grass in front of the house, trying to catch lightning bugs in a glass jar. Tommen had asked her to help, so he could see the creatures up close before letting them go again. She was  _ way _ too old for this kid stuff, but she had to admit that it was fun to let loose for a bit since her life was a miserable failure and she had no friends. At least Tommen loved her. Almost as much as her loved Briann, but hopefully more than he loved his chickens.

The headlights of car lit up the whole area, chasing the lightning bugs away. Nobody should be coming, especially that late!

Myrcy heard the house door swing open, Uncle Jaime stepping out to see what was going on. Brienne was right behind him, and their shirts were tucked in, so they hadn’t been off boning for once. Ha! They thought she didn’t know!

They’d both been weird over dinner. Uncle Jaime was clearly worried about Brienne’s nausea and was watching her like a hawk as she ate. He shoved more spinach onto her plate when she wasn’t looking, and took away some of the pasta.

She seemed to be feeling better, and she had a funny little smile the whole night. It wasn’t one Myrcy had seen before, but she liked it. It was cute and sort of mischievous.

They were holding hands when they stood on the porch. Myrcy moved to Tommen and grabbed his arm in case it was a serial killer in the mystery car.

It stopped, the lights turning off and the doors all opened. Before her eyes could even adjust from the previously blinding light, she felt a body slam against her and the scent of Winterfell Hot Springs Gardenia Lemon Cotton Fields body spray assault her nostrils.

She dropped Tommen’s arm and shrieked.

“Oh my gods  _ Sansa _ !?!?!?!” her arms wound around her shaking friend.

“Oh my gods Myrcy!!!! Gods, I’ve missed you so much, like, sooooo much!”

“Oh my gods  _ nooo _ I’ve missed  _ youuu _ !”

“No you!”

“No you, yes you!”

They jumped up and down until they lost their footing in the dew-slick grass and fell over.

“I’m going into the house now because I am scared of you, and I want to Hype with Briann before bedtime to ensure he is well,” Tommen declared before turning tail.

Sansa wailed. “I got  _ all _ your messages, and then I was texting one long beautiful reply and I wrote you a poem and then a song, and then my phone  _ died _ like a bastard in the north, and then my charger got run over by a motorcycle, then I just almost died of feelz and pain because I thought you would think I wasn’t texting you back and I didn’t love you and I didn’t know what to doooooo!”

“Oh no! Your charger died! We’ll have a funeral, and it’s okay, and we’re fine, and I love you like my own blood twin sister friend cousin friend! And you  _ cammmeeeeee!  _ I’m not abandoned!”

“I would  _ never _ ! Never ever in a million trillion years!”

A throat cleared form somewhere above them. “Exactly  _ why _ are you here, Sansa?”

Uncle Jaime cleared into her vision, and Myrcy smiled up at him, a smile of purity and joy. “I texted her this morning and asked if she could visit for a few days! I was  _ soooo _ lonely! And Grandfather Selwyn told me to ask her, because if she didn’t come she wasn’t a true friend, but I  _ knewwww _ she would come!”

Uncle Jaime looked stunned. Brienne walked up next to him. “ _ Grandfather _ Selwyn?”

Myrcy grinned a grin of contentment and gratefulness. “Yes! I told him I wished you were our mother and he was our real grandfather, and he said we could adopt him and we’re all a big family and that because I was lonely I should tell my friends to come take care of me for reasons of being eighteen and in need of assistance and lemon bars.”

“You…you said that? And he said that?” Brienne sounded almost choked up. No  _ wait… _ she  _ was _ choking up! Brienne never choked up!

Myrcy hopped up and threw her arms around Brienne. “I’m sorry, I don’t want anyone to feel weird, but I just love you, and Tommen loves you, and we know you love us, and Selwyn is very grandfatherly and said he wants to be our grandfather, and I cried a lot, and I just want us to be a big stupid family with a lot of pets!”

Brienne was still for a just a second, and then she hugged Myrcy back, harder than she ever had, and she didn’t even seem uncomfortable about it. “Myrcy, I think we already  _ are _ a big stupid family with a lot of pets.”

Uncle Jaime wrapped his good arm around them both.

“You’re all a bunch of dumbasses!” shouted a voice from somewhere near the car.

“Shut the fuck up, mini bitch!” Sansa shouted from her position on the grass.

“Sansa Stark! Watch you language!” Uncle Jaime demanded.

“Sorry!” Sansa wailed.

“And why are you here?” Uncle Jaime asked the mini-bitch.

Sansa’s sister Arya slithered out of the darkness, dressed all in black with a creepy grin on her face. “I’m going to make latex replicas of all your faces.”

“Ugh! Stop being so creepy, Arya!” Sansa pounded the grass with her fists.

“Ugh! Fine!” Arya stomped her foot. “I  _ have _ to be here, because mom doesn’t get that I’m not a kid or some crap, so she made me stay with Sansa, and now I’m stuck here while Gendry and all my stage makeup and all my stunt bungees are locked up at home!”

Uncle Jaime grimaced. “That Gendry boy is locked in your home?”

“Ugh! No! All my stuff is, but Gendry is stuck working for Renly making horseshoes for men, but everybody keeps thinking Gendry  _ is _ Renly because they look so much alike.”

“They really do…” Brienne mumbled.

“Horseshoes for men?” Uncle Jaime’s brow rose. 

“So mom basically hates me, and she loves my stupid bros more and won’t let us eat bread.” Arya plopped down on the grass next to Sansa, a thin note of maybe being actually hurt somewhere in her voice.

“Our bros  _ are _ really stupid,” Sansa wailed. “Rickon won’t stop trying to parkour everywhere. He got stuck in  _ two _ trees, and he jumped from the upstairs bannister to the chandelier and almost broke his neck. Bran is addicted to virtual reality games and wouldn’t take off his headset for five whole days. He said his name is the Crow now, and his eyes get all unfocused like he’s stoned. Rickon kept jumping out at him and scaring his balls off, so Arya’s bae made horseshoes for his kicks, and now he sounds like a crazy tap dancer.”

“His name is Gendry!!!! And he’s a genius, and that’s why Loras and Renly wanted him to work at their masculine design studio and peach emporium. Anyway, mom said something had to be done, so she and dad took ‘em north to the old family place. Something about nature and running like wolves where they can’t hear Rickon’s shoes out in the woods or some shit .” Arya shrugged.

“Language, Arya!” Jaime warned.

“Sorry.”

“Well, we can’t exactly send them back, and it’s pitch dark,” Uncle Jaime grumbled.

Brienne let go of Myrcy and took Uncle Jaime’s hand. “There’s that unused guestroom on the third floor. It will do.”

Uncle Jaime seemed to drain all his tension and stared at Brienne adoringly. Fuck! Why they couldn’t they just get married already!

“What about me, Mr. Lannister? I’m so sorry to inconvenience you. I was  _ assured _ that you were aware of our imminent arrival.” The voice of Willas Tyrell pierced the darkness, and he did  _ not _ sound pleased.

Sansa jumped up. “Sorry Willas, but we just  _ had _ to get here right away!”

Willas wilted. “It’s not as if we had anything else to do. Our gig got canceled.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry! What absolute dumbassery!” Myrcy hugged Sansa because it wasn’t like she would hug annoying Willas. “Why didn’t you tell me?!?!”

Sansa teared up. “I was embarrassed. We were sooooo good, you know? People just aren’t ready for our genius.”

“No, they are  _ not! _ ” Willas confirmed.

“The boy can stay with me!” the booming voice of Grandfather Tarth sounded like a trombone.

“Dad? Why are you out here?” Brienne asked.

“Lights, voices, sounds like a party! I love a good party.” He approached everyone with a big smile on his face. “Hello, boy. I’ve got a great guest room with a fireplace in it. And a giant bass I caught and stuffed myself!”

“Oh, well…thank you, Ser.”

Uncle Jaime chuckled. “This is Brienne’s father, Selwyn Tarth. Selwyn, this is Willas Tyrrell. He’s Margaery’s brother and Sansa’s…person.”

“Bonded blood love,” Sansa whispered.

“You will never say that out loud again,” Uncle Jaime told her.

“Okay. To you.” She faced Grandfather Selwyn. “I will make lemon bars times one jillion!”

Grandfather Selwyn patted his stomach. “Now  _ that’s _ some very good news!”

Soon, Uncle Jaime and Brienne wandered back into the house with Tommen, and Grandfather Selwyn dragged Willas away to get him settled into the bass chamber. Arya slid back into the darkness like some assassin. It was just Myrcy and Sansa.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Myrcy whispered.

“I’m so glad I’m here, too,” Sansa whispered.

A moment of silence, then, “I miss Marg,” they whispered together.

Myrcy swallowed nervously. “Could…could we ask her to come? She loves business though, so much…”

“I think we could…we  _ should _ . We need her, right? I haven’t even asked about the project!”

“Bad!” Myrcy said. “Bad bad not good! Slow. Help.”

“Marg,” Sansa pleaded.

Myrcy pulled out her phone and sent the summons.  _ Can u b free pls? nd hlp luv u. _

It took approximately one minute to see Marg’s reply.  _ Hate evythn! No men noluv class bad. Lookd n2 a fire n saw destny. ON NX PLN!!! _

“She said  _ yes! _ ” Myrcy shrieked.

“Just like the O-T-P is going to say yes to the epic wedding!” Sansa wailed. 

“It’s going to  _ happen _ now, I know it. We’re all going to be back together like a really popular band who broke up, only we didn’t break up, we just went on vacation, but we’ll be back together and  _ anything _ is possible.” Myrcy grabbed one of Sansa’s hands and squeezed until their fingers turned red.

“Anything,” they whispered at the same time. 

 


	4. In Which There is a Hunt, a Spontaneous Zoo, and a Wayward Chopper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brawk.

 

“It’s been _eight days_ , Brienne. You have to go to the doctor,” Jaime pleaded, his hand on her cheek.

He was in an awful state after seeing her sick after breakfast yet _again_. She had eaten a bagel! All that gluten was killing her. No, not killing, just...sensitizing. Brienne could not die. Ever.

And all she did was _laugh_ at him! She never laughed at him, only _with_ him! The gluten allergy was making her giddy.

“I already said I would, _five times_ , Jaime.” She grinned. Grinned! As if a raging gluten allergy were amusing. “I will go, but it’s not urgent. I promise.”

“You’re going to back out and not go.”

“I will not! I keep my word as you well know,” she huffed.

“You don’t want to go.”

“Nobody _wants_ to go to the doctor. But I will go. As I have said. Six times.” She placed her hand over his and brought it to her lips so she could kiss his palm.

Well damn, now he wanted to fuck. She _never_ did that! “I love you more now than I did one minute ago.”

“That’s ridiculous, and you just want to be naked again.” She didn’t look remotely unhappy about his claim.

“I always want to be naked with you, which is clearly a manifestation of my ever-increasing love. After you go to the doctor, let’s get naked.” He twisted his hand to tangle his fingers with hers and leaned forward to nip at her pinky.

“You think I’m deathly ill and have hounded me constantly this morning to go to the doctor, but now you just want to get naked? If I’m ill, I shouldn’t exert myself.” She was still smiling...sneakily.

He felt himself go pale, clutching her hand and flattening it against his heart. “That’s true. You really shouldn’t.”

She rolled her eyes but then looked very kind. “Jaime, believe me. I swear to you it’s not serious, it’s just… _lady_ things. I promise. I make a solemn vow.”

She wouldn’t lie to him, or even try to protect him if she thought she could really be sick. But she might not think about the gluten…

“Ask the doctor about food allergies.”

“It’s not a food allergy,” she stated with absolute confidence.

“But it might be.”

“It’s not.”

He bit his lip in concern. “But it might be.”

“It’s not,” she murmured. Her eyes fixed on his mouth, and she blushed.

He had not intended to seduce his wife while arguing about a doctor. These things just sort of happened whenever they were in the same room.

“We’ve got an hour, _Brienne_ …” His throat went dry as he stared at the freckled majesty of her neck.

“What’s in an hour?” she swallowed thickly.

“Your doctor’s appointment. Right in Evenfall, five minutes away.”

She leaned back, and she’d been _so_ close to his mouth… “Really, Jaime, you are just…something else.”

“Your favorite husband?” He sneaked in a little nip, her bottom lip too alluring to leave alone.

“I’ve only got the one.” She shook her head, but she was smiling.

“You’re not mad?”

“No, Jaime. If I got mad every time you went full _Lannister_ I’d only exasperate myself. I was going to call anyway.” She shrugged. “And you do these things because you care. It’s okay.”

He kissed her for a long moment. “I’ll try to be a little less _Lannister_ and actually _ask_ if you want me to come with you.”

She glanced away and blushed harder. “I…I’d rather go alone. For… _lady_ reasons.”

He chuckled. “Fine, _Lady Brienne_. I’ll claim to understand and wait with baited breath until your return, but you well know that I’ve seen every single pinpoint of your body.”

“It’s not fair to flirt with me before I have to go to a _doctor_. My heartrate will be abnormal.”

“Are you saying I make your heart race? I can tell.” He worked at speeding it up a little, mostly to match his own.

She broke their kiss and stepped back, just enough to see his face. “Stop distracting me! I wanted to give you something, and you keep derailing it.”

“I’m terribly sorry.” He grinned.

“You aren’t. Here.” She pulled out a small envelope from her pocket and held it out to him.

He took it. “What’s this?”

“Just open it.” She bit her lip, looking just a little bit nervous. It was unusual. And hot.

He looked at the envelope and saw a little drawing on one side, a crescent shape that looked like the outline of teeth. It took him a second, but then he understood that she was showing him how to open it. He often had to use his teeth for the mail since he only had one hand. It drove her crazy, and she was always pestering him about potential paper cuts on his tongue. His heart raced more to see the tiny things she thought about every day.

He looked at her through his lashes as he bit the envelope open. She licked her lip. He almost dropped the envelope in favor of licking her skin somewhere, but if she’d gone to this much trouble, he really should focus.

He managed to get the note out by tucking the open envelope between his stump and his chest and pulling with his fingers. It was just a simple card with a few lines written on one side.

 

_When I was a girl, I dreamed of marrying a handsome prince._

_The place where I dreamed is the limb of a wooden giant marking a place of wedded bliss._

_Find where I consume sand and your next clue._

 

Jaime read it three times, then looked up at her, slightly confused but also equal parts horny and thrilled that she wanted to play a game. Marriage _really_ agreed with her.

He grinned. “Is this a scavenger hunt?”

She looked shy and flushed and fuckable. “Um, yes. I…I just want to show you more of the island, the places that were important to me as a girl here. Why not make it fun?”

“Why not indeed.” He leered out her outright.

She glanced away. “You can start looking while I’m in town.”

“Oh, I definitely will. You know, I think I’ll take the rest of the week off. No telecommuting, just holiday. And fun with you. Lots and lots of _fun_.”

“You mean _more_ fun. We’ve had quite a lot of fun already.” She smiled sweetly with just a little bit of bashful and a dash of seduction. This was the most irresistible mix yet.

“Brienne Lannister, are you using a euphemism? I’m shocked.”

“I might be.”

“Guess what?” he said in his sexiest voice.

“What?” She was a little breathless.

“I love you more now than I did one minute ago.”

She squared her shoulders and looked quite stern. “Yes, well, I love you more now than I did when I said my vows and promised to be yours forever. How do you like that?”

His next kiss was lengthy and not terribly gentle. “I like that a lot, and we’ve got forty-five minutes. Want to have some… _fun_?”

She kissed him back, surprising him for once with her total lack of self-conscientiousness. “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Myrcy lounged in the gazebo with her feet propped up on the railing, a light breeze chilling her toes painted a fiery Lannister red. Tommen and Grandfather Selwyn were playing Cyvasse back on the porch, and Arya Stark was at the top of a tree trying to camouflage herself into looking like bark using Selwyn’s fishing pole grease. Willas sat cross-legged in the middle of the grass, jamming on a mandolin.

Sansa stretched in her seat next to Myrcy and massaged her palm. “I can hardly write anymore today. My hand’s all cramped.”

“But you got all the plan down?” Myrcy asked. “Tonight’s hourly wedding chore schedule? As soon as Marg gets here, we’ve got to _hustle_ , you know?”

“What’s the e.t.a. now?” Sansa turned to the page in her notebook that recorded their by-the-five-minute-block countdown to Marg’s touchdown in King’s Landing.

Myrcy checked the flight tracker. “Ew, still eight whole hours! And thirty-five minutes! Basically forever.”

“We’ll be mummies,” Sansa wailed.

“We can at least narrow down the sketches for _the dress_ .” Myrcy picked up her own notebook filled with her designs for FleaBay creations, but the last whole section was devoted to manifestations of _the dress_ . So far, they had not found _it_.

Footsteps hurried up to them, and then Uncle Jaime leaned over the railing on one side of the gazebo. “Girls, I’m looking for a giant’s wooden limb. Does that mean anything to you? Is it in one of Brienne’s books?’

Myrcy sat bolt upright. “You don’t _know_ yourself?!?!”

“I cannot even,” Sansa chastised.

“I…I’m….” Uncle Jaime grimaced. “I’m _old_ okay? Memory problems. You remember them far better than I, and I get too distracted by her actual person to remember what she wrote anyway.”

“That’s so sweet!” Sansa dabbed at the single tear on her cheek.

“Except chapter fourteen?!?!” Myrcy shouted.

“Yes, obviously.” Uncle Jaime nodded.

Sansa glanced at Myrcy as they thought real hard about all the paragraphs, but nothing came to mind.

“I don’t think it’s anything she wrote. Why?” Myrcy stared at him, noticing that he up to something.

His cheeks colored. Not like Brienne’s certainly, but still…

“Nothing! No reason. A game. Nothing. Thanks!” He darted out of the gazebo and headed back to Grandfather Selwyn and Tommen.

Myrcy glanced at Sansa. They nodded, and immediately hopped up to climb over the gazebo railing, drop into the dirt and cause at least one scraped shin, and dash off to follow. Uncle Jaime was _up to something._

“—any idea where a place of wedded bliss might be? Maybe something historical?” they just caught Uncle Jaime ask Grandfather Selwyn.

Who slowly, slowly looked at Uncle Jaime from over the Cyvasse board. Then he looked at _them_ very quickly, and Myrcy didn’t think Uncle Jaime even noticed, but Grandfather Selwyn _knew_ that Uncle Jaime was up to something.

“Ahem, uh…no, nothing I can recall,” he muttered.

“Your move,” Tommen tugged on Grandfather Selwyn’s sleeve.

“Oh, well then, I have no idea where to look,” Uncle Jaime said, almost to himself. “Hmm…might be somewhere people get married…a sept, or…the beach!” Uncle Jaime’s eyes lit up, and he dashed off to the path leading down to the sand.

Myrcy and Sansa glanced at one another. “Follow him!”

Grandfather Selwyn made a move on the game board, then leaned toward them. “Now wait a splitpea second there, you have to give him a head start so he doesn’t know he’s being followed. Just like a nice sea bass.”

“Oh. Yeah I guess so, thanks!” Myrcy started counting in her head.

“And I’ve got to tell you about the septon,” Selwyn continued. “But we might have to rush things along as I’m getting the feeling Jaime might be looking to set up his own secret wedding and whatnot.”

Myrcy and Sansa looked at one another in horror. “No! He can’t _do_ that! His would be random and have no epicness! With cheap rings!”

“Well, that’s why we’ve gotta stall him. Now about the septon—”

“Ooh, you got him?” Sansa jumped up and down.

“Oh boy, did I ever!” Selwyn chuckled. “Promised him a booth on the main strip of the Tarth Regional Storm Fair at the end of summer. He’s been stuck behind the cotton candy for years, and nobody buys the sept’s shortbread and non-alcoholic grapeberry wine.”

“That is just grape juice, Grandfather Selwyn.” Tommen stated.

“Shh!” Selwyn winked at Tom. “It’s certainly _not_ and definitely a very special small batch specialty. That’s island life for ya.”

Myrcy sucked in a deep breath. “Can we go follow Uncle Jaime now?”

“Give it another minute. Trust me.” Another Cyvasse move, and Myrcy could tell that Tommen was losing by the little huff her brother let out.

“How will the septon know when we’re ready?” Sansa wailed.

“Oh don’t you worry about Septon Storm. Edric’s a fine young idiot, and he’s on call. Any hour, any day, he’s got to show up where I tell him to show up. He’s moved his office to the miniature donkey barn so he’s close.” Selwyn chuckled as he moved a Cyvasse piece.

“Tarth’s Little Asses?” Tommen asked, a look of longing on his face as he glanced in the direction of the barn.

“Well, sounds wrong to hear it from you, but sure thing.”

Myrcy remembered that she’d been meaning to ask why exactly there were little asses on Tarth at all, but the sound of a car approaching made them all turn around.

The car passed Grandfather Selwyn’s driveway and came closer to theirs, and then it screeched to a halt, shouting coming from inside as a sleek cat darted right in front of the tires.

Tommen stood up so fast the Cyvasse pieces knocked over. “Nooo! Ser Pounce’s almost cat girlfriend!”

From inside the house, a banging started against the huge front window that overlooked the porch where they all stood. Ser Pounce was throwing himself at the glass, mewling and punching with his little paws.

“Noooo, Ser Pounce!” Tommen looked like he would give himself whiplash from gazing alternately at Ser Pounce and the cat girlfriend that was sitting calmly in front of the stupefied car. He chose Ser Pounce as he always did and darted into the house.

Selwyn stomped forward toward the placid offending beast. “Look you, Gatehouse Ami, I’ve told you a thousand times, you stay in that barn or your prowling ways’ll be the end of you!”

Gatehouse Ami mewled at Selwyn and began licking a paw.

The doors of the car opened, and to Myrcy’s shock, Uncle Tyrion tumbled out, cursing and looking pale. Slung over his shoulder was Briann the Lizard, spewing vomit and bleeting like a wounded sheep.

“Where is Tommen?” Uncle Tyrion shouted.

Tommen had pet radar. The house door banged open, and Tommen ran out with Ser Pounce strapped into his Baby Tormund. “Briannnnn!!!!”

The stupid lizard squirmed around in Uncle Tyrion’s arms, bleeting and crying, and leapt through the air toward Tommen. They collided and fell to the grass in a mire of lizard limbs, blond boy, and mewling cat.

Briann’s very pale scaly skin began to turn back into its normal vibrant blue. Ser Pounce patted him on the head then started howling in the general direction of his girlfriend.

“Well how about that…” Grandfather Selwyn shook his head.

Uncle Tyrion looked absolutely terrible, purple circles under his eyes and lizard vomit down his back. “Is he dying? Is he dead? Did we make it?”

“I think he’s okay, Uncle Tyrion!” Myrcy told him, moving to give him a proper hug while avoiding the lizard vomit.

“What’s happening?!?” Sansa wailed.

Another door of the car burst open, this time emitting a cloud of black feathers, and Tysha’s voice bellowed out. “Tyrion! They’re getting loose! I can’t grab them all!”

“Hey! Save those feathers!” Arya shouted deafeningly from her spot in the tree.

Tyrion whipped around and started running back to the car. “Is the leash on them?”

“Yes, but they’re getting out!”

Tommen was basking in the presence of his beloved creatures, both of which were happily licking his face when he remembered that there were actual people around, and _situations_ . “They?!!? Is it my _chickens_?!?!?!”

Yet another door of the car opened, and poor Tysha fell straight out of it, covered in feathers and sprawled on a pile of escaped books.

Out hopped six chickens, one after the other, connected by a leash tied around one foot each. Myrcy thought it was made of a cut-up sheet or something. The chickens bawked and waddled over the grass in the general direction of Tommen.

Tyrion ignored them and went straight for Tysha. Myrcy looked at Sansa and Grandfather Selwyn. They all turned toward the chickens and started to chase them down, but that only scared them until they started running off in all different direction, the leash making them tangle and freak out.

From near the car, Gatehouse Ami jumped at the closest chicken.

“Nooo! Hodorella!” Tommen screamed.

“Bloodbath! Bloodbath!” Arya chanted like a vengeful tree goddess.

Myrcy went for Gatehouse Ami. Sansa went for Hodorella. Selwyn took Briann so Tommen could get up and try to calm his zoo.

“Ha! Gotcha!” Myrcy wrapped her arms around the squirming gorgeous cat. She was so soft and had such pretty cat eye makeup. Even a nice nose contour going on.

Sansa held Hodorella like she was made of stinky glass. Hodorella oozed onto Sansa’s arm. “Nooo! Ew!”

“Bwahaha, Sansa, you’re getting chicken pox now!” Arya shouted again.

“I’ve had it you dumbass!”

Selwyn stepped on a link of the chicken leash to get the rest of them to stop moving.

“Now what in the seven seas is going on here?” He demanded, but he had a big smile on his face.

Tyrion came back, his hand tightly gripping Tysha’s. They both looked like they hadn’t slept all night.

“After the pool incident, we took Briann to the vet as promised,” Uncle Tyrion huffed, a little out of breath from all the crazy. “The vet said he had separation anxiety and was giving himself high blood pressure. We were supposed to watch him and make sure he ate, but…” Tyrion hesitated. Myrcy caught him trying _not_ to look at Tommen whose gaze was riveted.

Tysha picked up the story, her voice shaky. “He wouldn’t eat _anything_ , and he was just vomiting and vomiting! He got so pale! We thought he was going to…we were really worried, and we didn’t know if he would be okay if we called you and had Tommen come home. It might take too long. And we couldn’t put him on a plane.”

“Asshole Tywin wouldn’t lend the Lannister jet for a lizard...the asshole,” Tyrion grumbled.

Grandfather Selwyn spoke up. “So you’re telling me that you were so worried about this here lizard fading away and causing the boy a world of hurt that you packed him up in a car, with six loose chickens, and drove all the way out here?”

Uncle Tyrion cleared his throat. “Well…yes. We made a leash.”

“And what were you planning on doing with six chickens once you got here?” Selwyn chuckled.

Tyrion looked up at Tysha. “We didn’t get that far.”

“Then it’s lucky I’ve got a barn nearby. Right now, there’s only ten miniature donkeys, a little tart of a cat, and a septon inside. It can fit those crazy chickens. One of my old coops is still in good condition.”

“A _septon_?” Tyrion’s brow rose almost to his hairline.

“Oh, thank you, Grandfather Selwyn!” Tommen shrieked, leaping toward the giant man and hugging him fiercely, Ser Pounce and Briann both a little squished but they were used to it. Ser Pounce looked longingly at the pretty girl cat in Myrcy’s arms.

All of a sudden, Tysha plopped down on the grass and started to cry. Myrcy had never seen her cry. She had never seen the nice lady do much of anything but smile. And look stupidly at Tyrion. Kind of the way Uncle Jaime looked at Brienne.

“Don’t cry!” Tyrion sat by her and weirdly started patting her arm and her shoulder and her hair. “I’ll buy you an airport or a volcano or something!”

“I…I…don’t want…a…volcano!” Tysha sniffed. “I just want to sleep! I thought the lizard was going to die! And then I’d be the lizard murderer and Tommen would hate me! And _I_ would hate me! And then you’d have to pick your family over me because I murdered the lizard and the chickens!”

Myrcy started to tear up. She glanced at Sansa only to find her hunched over and already crying into Hodorella’s feathers.

“Oh no!” Sansa wailed. “I’m picturing Tommen’s face if…if something happened…”

“No, don’t do that! Oh no, it’s too late!” Myrcy couldn’t see anymore through the watery filter. The comfort of Gatehouse Ami’s purr was the only thing keeping her upright.

She heard Uncle Tyrion speak softly to Tysha. “You haven’t murdered anything, and even if we weren’t on time, it would never be your fault. I got you into this, and you’ve been…perfect. I’d pick you. No matter what.”

“Re…really?” Tysha stuttered.

“Absolutely. I’m going to call a car so you don’t have to drive anymore, and we’ll find a nice posh hotel where you can sleep for two days straight. I can’t promise I won’t buy you the hotel.”

“Now, seems to me,” said Selwyn, “that you could skip all that and stay with me in that big old house right next door. I’ve got five more guestrooms. It’s boring with only that musical lad in the bass room!”

Judging by the nonstop jamming on the mandolin, Willas Tyrell was lost in his own auditory world and had heard nothing.

Myrcy reluctantly drew her face from the soft, soft cat fur and rubbed the film from her eyes just in time to see Tyrion stand and move toward Selwyn. “That’s extraordinarily kind of you. It’s obvious who you are both from your enormous stature and your unselfish offer of hospitality. Very pleased to meet Brienne’s father at last.” Tyrion extended his small hand which was then enveloped by Selwyn’s giant one.

“Same, same. And you’re Jaime’s brother, and that there is your girl, and seems to me that you Lannister boys sure do pick some fine ladies, if I do say so myself. Chicken leash innovations, and lots of books going around. Yes, yes, fine ladies.” Selwyn nodded, and with a finally calm Briann handed back over to Tommen, Selwyn moved to haul Tysha to her feet in one easy motion. “All right, dear, let’s get you into the house where there’s a steam shower and a fluffy feather bed that’s better than any hotel. There’s doesn’t have that touch of home, with some nice bass decorations and even my famous chowder and butter biscuits coming your way.”

Tommen tugged on Uncle Tyrion’s sleeve, awkwardly because of Ser Pounce who was holding the chicken leash between his teeth. “Thank you, Uncle Tyrion, for not letting Briann the Lizard perish. I am in your debt, like a proper Lannister.”

Uncle Tyrion looked almost blushy. He glanced away. “Then I’ll see that debt paid if you make Tysha a huge cake from all those chicken eggs they laid in her car. She loves cake.”

“I promise!” Tommen shouted to Tysha who was halfway across the yard.

Tyrion smiled fondly, the smile he only ever used for her and Tommen, and he moved to follow the exhausted, sniffing, Tysha who was resting her head on Selwyn’s big comforting arm. He glanced back once, then again and longer.

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to?”

Myrcy and Sansa said as one, “Nothing, Uncle Tyrion.”

He narrowed his eyes more, then they widened. “Oh no. No! You cannot plan a wedding like this!”

 

* * *

 

Jaime paced along the beach, growing more annoyed by the second that he couldn’t seem to figure out Brienne’s clue. Selwyn was dissembling about his knowledge, that was clear, but maybe Brienne had asked him not to help?

Mostly Jaime was just worried. Shouldn’t she be back from the doctor’s by now? He pulled his phone from his pocket for the hundredth time, but no text. He’d even ignored the raucous shouting he’d heard from the direction of the house. It wasn’t anything serious, or someone would have found him, and Selwyn was there to make sure nobody was setting their hair on fire. Between the two girls, Tommen and his cat, that _other_ barn cat who seemed to be inching closer to the house by the day, Arya Stark, and Willas Tyrell, Jaime could think of a thousand reasons for a shouting match to happen, and he didn’t have the energy to handle any of them.

It had been too bloody long. He wanted to _see_ her. He had an addiction and should probably go to Wench Addicts Anonymous, even though he was incurable. She would expect him to have deciphered her clue, too, and he couldn’t even wrap his head around the words. Maybe he was focusing too much on the wedded bliss part. A giant’s wooden limb?

Something Selwyn owned? He was a large man. Something giant...a peg leg costume? Island pirates? Something wooden, and a limb...

Jaime glanced out at the beautiful sapphire water. The color wasn’t as lovely as her eyes. The sand wasn’t as sandy-blonde-looking as her hair. The sand fleas looked like freckles but weren’t at all tempting.

He chuckled to himself. He had it _bad_.

The clue would have to wait for now. Maybe Selwyn had a book about Tarth he could reference. He turned to find the path leading back to the house, and off to one side and down the beach a little was a massive driftwood log, the top polished by wind and high tides and the wood bleached an ashy kind of blond. He cocked his head, contemplating it. It was huge, and wooden…maybe?

Oh. Brienne had told him long ago that her parents had married on a beach on Tarth, and when they’d arrived, she’d wanted to show it to him. They just hadn’t gotten there yet. She’d said she was “saving it” for some reason. Is that where she’d wanted to marry rather than a twenty-four-hour sept? Well, they were going to do it again anyway. If this was where she wanted it, he would consider it decided.

His bare feet sunk into the warm sand as he walked toward the driftwood. He placed his hand on it, and circled it. One end was lifted up by old petrified roots, and the other…it was very…round. Rubbed smooth by the sand probably. Weirdly round and weirdly smooth. It _almost_ looked a giant dick.

He grinned like a teenager. It _did_ look like a giant dick. What was she doing, sending him to such an object? Oh….

He considered the clue. _Limb of a wooden giant_ . A dick was a limb. _Wedded bliss_ . Well, they hadn’t exactly waited for the bliss part, but it was still true. _Consume the sand_ . The driftwood dick was pointed down at the sand. It could be consume-ating? What a salacious clue! His shy, blushing bride was sending him on a scavenger hunt to places she wanted to _consume_.

Should he strip? No, the children could catch him, and that wouldn’t be right. He shuddered. Maybe he’d missed something. He bent down to examine the space underneath the lifted roots.  

The small envelope was tucked into a crevice. He pulled it out and saw that it was new, not very dirty yet, and matching the one in his pocket. At least he’d found it, even if by accident.

There was another circle of sketched teeth marks. He torn it open and held the second card with the second clue.  


_When I was a girl, I dreamed of living in a castle._

_The place where I dreamed is the bed of the forest, emerald green and thirsty for dew._

_Find where I cradle new life and your next clue._   


Jaime swallowed, then again, despite the abrupt dryness of his throat. She wasn’t even hiding it! _Bed_ ? Thirsty for _dew_ where life was cradled?

Did she want to try for a baby? No, that was too veiled when it was all so blatant. Emerald meant _him_ , and he was _always_ thirsty for her.

He was going to shower her with anything she ever wanted. A castle, a new laptop. Some boxes of handmade pencils. Whatever she wanted. And apparently, she wanted him thirsty.

But first, there was the driftwood dick to consider. He wasn’t going to skip the experience promised by one clue in search of the next. All in good time.

Brienne parked the car behind the one in front of her, all four of its doors flung open and a pile of books spilled out of one side. She couldn’t get around it, and she was more than slightly concerned about its status as abandoned in front of her house, and who might have been inside.

She climbed out of the car and circled the vehicle that she was beginning to recognize. She thought it might be Tysha’s, though she’d rarely seen it since Tyrion always had his driver take them places.

If Tysha were there, had there been a disaster? That was really the only explanation, and a sense of dread settled in her gut, but then she grew paranoid that the intangible dread would send too much cortisol to the baby…

 _Oh gods_ . She was going to be like _that_ . Those women. _Those women_ . How in the seven heavens and seven hells had _she_ become one of _them_?!

Love did really stupid things to people. She took a deep breath and found her familiar stalwart stride, glancing at her father’s house but seeing nothing as she moved toward the rental. The noise, as always, was the first to greet her. She peered through the front window to find her father at the big dining table, a massive stack of pancakes in front of him, with a variety of creatures, both human and _not_ arranged around the table. Myrcy and Sansa, Willas Tyrell, and Arya Stark were on one side. And on the other…Brienne shook her head to herself. How in the world…?

Tommen was there on a stool, and he looked healthy and unharmed at least. Ser Pounce was in his usual chair, but sharing that chair was that brazen barn cat always making eyes at the poor innocent Ser Pounce. What was that hussy doing in the house? And none of it explained why Briann the Lizard was there, licking the edge of the table from his chair, or the six Waldas wandering the kitchen, tied together by what looked like the shredded remains of her guestroom sheet set.

She gingerly opened the front door, wanting very much to _not_ handle any of whatever _this_ was, but Jaime was not there, and she needed to know where he was. The house smelled like delicious vanilla cake, on top of the maple pancake scent, which caused instant distraction and a watering mouth.

Her father looked up. “There you are, my girl! Pancakes?”

She was starving, but the pancakes would have to wait. “Maybe in a bit. _After_ someone explains to me why there’s an abandoned car that looks like Tysha’s parked in the drive, and why Briann is here, and why exactly all those chickens are loose. Free range doesn’t mean the kitchen.”

Myrcy spoke with a mouth full of syrupy pancake. “Briann was dying. Now he’s fine.”

Tommen nodded almost violently. “Uncle Tyrion is a hero and Aunt Tysha is a hero, and I want to make gold badges for them, but I will have to settle for the cake that is baking in the oven right now.”

“Uncle Tyrion and Tysha are over at Grandfather Selwyn’s. Tysha had a breakdown and needed to be coddled like a little cute baby, and showered with water and probably sex.” Sansa nodded sagely.

“Sansa Stark! Watch your language!” Brienne drew her brows together, saying Jaime’s usual line, but with a much more…commanding tone.

Sansa drew back. “Holy aurochs, you sound just like my mom!”

Myrcy grinned, finally swallowing her pancakes. “That’s because she’s going to be an insanely awesome mother someday, duh! All those tall, awkward babies, ooh, I wanna squish their cheeks and measure them!”

Brienne could feel her betraying blush start to creep up her beck. She turned quickly away, toward Tommen, approaching and resting a hand on his shoulder. “You all right? Briann is all right?” She sighed. “And the chickens?”

Tommen smiled so sweetly up at her. “I am fine now. I was very…emotionally fragile earlier, but Briann seems to be his usual self again, and he’s not pale anymore and he stopped vomiting! He has eaten four pancakes and some powdered cricket. The chickens are very upset though. I don’t know what to do yet.”

She squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “I’m very glad everyone is okay.”

The she moved to the edge of the open kitchen, ignoring the sink that seemed filled with eggshells, and stared sternly at the chickens. “You there, behave yourselves or no more organic carrots!”

The chickens bawked, then settled down one by one. Hodorella peered at her with those murky, beady eyes. “Bawk?”

“No talking back,” Brienne demanded.

Hodorella plopped down and got that constipated look when she was going to lay an egg.

Brienne nodded in satisfaction, and turned back to the table where everyone was staring at her, forks hovering in midair.

She was out of patience. Gazing upon Jaime’s face was her only priority now that she was sure no one was bleeding.

Myrcy pointed out the door. “He’s down at the beach.”

“Thank you, Myrcy. Carry on.” And she marched back outside and all the way to the sand.

If he’d deciphered her clue, he might even be in the forest already, but she hoped he’d waited for her so she could explain why she’d wanted him to see the driftwood marker. She’d have to dissemble about the doctor, keep talking about _lady business_ until he finished the hunt after the fifth clue. She’d wrapped her pregnancy test up with that one, so he’d know as soon as he opened it. She’d just have to time it right so she could follow him and see his face.

There he was, lounging against the wood. He hadn’t seen her yet. The sun turned his hair into molten gold, his skin into tanned perfection, so…lickable. She must have summoned him with her mind, as he looked over and grinned widely. As she approached, there was an obvious gleam in his eyes, sneaky and seductive. It was _that_ look. On steroids.

The second she was within arm’s reach, she found herself grabbed and spun to rest her back against the driftwood, and his mouth was on her, and her heart galloped like a wild horse on the sand.

His hand was everywhere. Her shirt was half off, but then he seemed to remember something and leaned back. She was so dazed she could hardly focus.

“Are you all right? What did the doctor say?” His gaze was serious now, his mood entirely different, but the one she vastly preferred lurked right there beneath the surface.

She nodded furiously. “I’m fine. I swear. Everything’s fine, and come back here..”

He kissed her, but held back again. “You sure? It’s not gluten?”

She laughed, loudly and freely. “No Jaime, it’s not gluten, and yes, I’m fine. Better than fine. Now do you want to come back here or not, because if you do, you’ve got to stay a while.”

“Oh, I do. I really, really do.” Snog. “I love your clues. Both of them. So hot.” Smack. “This wood is hilarious.”

“Hot?” She gasped. “What are you talking about.” Sigh. “I know, and it’s unfortunate that the place where my parents married now looks like…” she swallowed.

He glanced at her, licking his lip. “Looks like what, Brienne?”

He knew she had a hard time saying certain _words_ allowed. Like a prudish septa. With her pants unzipped and one breast out in the sea air for anyone to witness if they happened to pass.

“Looks like _that_.” She skated one hand down south and showed him.

“I’m a giant now? I relish the compliment.” He kissed all thought from her head and pressed his body full against hers.

She was vaguely aware of a heavy wind stirring around them, but it was only the very edge of the storm season. Nothing to worry about it. Wow, it was whipping Jaime’s hair to a frenzy…chilling her hand as it wrestled with Jaime’s shirt. Faster and faster. She looked up.

She froze. Jaime was still tending to certain places rendered available by her open shirt. “Jaime? Jaime!”

He raised his head, eyes glazed over. “Huh?”

She nodded toward the sky, just over the water and behind him. It was a helicopter, hovering too close to the water in her opinion, and the rear door was recklessly open to reveal a lithe figure leaning out. The grin on Margaery Tyrell’s face was quite something. And she wore extremely tight rose-colored short shorts and what looked to be a septa’s collar and half a blouse.

“Hey!” she shouted into a bullhorn above the roar of the chopper. “You should show more cleavage! Your boobs are pretty!”

Brienne scrambled to close her shirt, and poor Jaime’s face was both mortified and furious. She placed her palms on his cheeks and made him look at her. “It’s Margaery. This was bound to happen. Because it’s Margaery.”

He seemed taken aback. “How are you not running away in embarrassment? Not that you’ve got reason to…” he licked his lips, still half in a horny stupor, “but still…it’s _you_.”

She blinked. “I just can’t seem to care right now.”

He blinked. “Oh gods, I’m going to rip your clothes off in about five seconds.”

She looked back at the chopper and shouted. “Margaery, please tell your pilot not to hover at this hazardous distance, and then go land somewhere acceptably safe. That is not here. Somewhere not right here.”

Margaery continued to grin. “Sure thing, mom!” And she showed off by leaning way out of the chopper, hanging onto a bar with one hand and waving manically with the bullhorn.

The wind picked up, the real one this time. The chopper jerked ever so slightly, and the absurdly-dressed Margaery Tyrell toppled right out and down into the water.

 


	5. In Which There is a Realization, a Butter Massage, and a Very Thirsty Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I try and fail to summarize, because this fic is nuts, so any summary is basically "nuts things occur." So...nuts things occur. And some snogging.

 

Marg felt contrite. It was such a new feeling, entirely unfamiliar. None of her business classes had prepared her for this. She felt _bad_.

Brienne Tarthicorn sat across from her on the front porch, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, just like Marg herself. The Majestic Queen of Love and Beauty has rescued her, _her_ , Margaery Tyrell of Tyrell Enterprises from the gaping jaws of the cruel sea. Did the sea even have jaws? Or was it it a pit? A bottomless pit of scary teeth and death. And seaweed.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t swim. She cut quite a sexy swath through a hotel pool. It had been the septa’s collar which had gotten sodden as soon as she’d hit the water, flipping up and plastering itself to her face, and she’d flailed hopelessly like Sansa that one time she got lost in a corn maze. She’d _known_ she was going to die, but at least it would have been very dramatic.

Then there had been the strongest arms _ever_ pulling her from the brink of death like the Mother, and she had been gently laid upon the warm sand as Brienne hovered over her and peeled the collar away. Hot Uncle Jaime had been there, yelling about how Brienne should not have exerted herself in her condition, but then he’d also apologized for implying that Marg should not been saved. All that yelling was hot.

Marg thought she should have faked her death so Hot Uncle Jaime would have tried mouth-to-mouth-to-tongue. But Brienne had obviously thought he was just _so_ hot, too, and they’d looked like they still wanted to fuck, so Marg felt _even worse_ for interrupting. Such a shame that he was occupied trying to find a place for Grandmother’s helicopter to refuel. She would have enjoyed a tongue lashing from him.

On the porch as they dried, there was still so much kindness in Brienne’s enormous gemstone wonder eyes, and the sunlight jamming at the edge of the porch was turning her hair a really trendy gilver shade. But…

There was a but. And not just her soggy ass with one hells of a wedgy from her sodden, formerly super cute, short shorts. Brienne looked…resigned. She _never_ looked resigned! Unicorns did not resign!

Brienne was mad at her. Brienne hated her. Brienne was going to unfollow all her socials!

Marg could not help it. She could not stifle it any longer, and the watery cascade of angst began to pool at the corners of her eyes, leaking slowly out to mix with dried kelpy salt and kohl from Asshai. It was _not_ waterproof, the bitch.

She cleared her throat and tried to look at her second-most-admired mentor in life, because Grandmother would never cede power.

“I…I’m sorry I’ve made you hate me, Brienne. I’m so, so sorry.” And Margaery Tyrell cried years of pent-up saline.

Brienne looked _more_ resigned! She clenched her jaw and rested her head back on the wicker chair. “Margaery, I do _not_ hate you! By the gods, of course I don’t.” Then she abruptly leaned forward and stared straight at Marg’s eyes.

It was just too much power to handle, so Marg stared at the caked sand on her feet.

“Telling you not to lean out of helicopters or take _any_ unnecessary risks does _not_ mean that I hate you! Why in the world would you think that?” Brienne shook her head a little. Marg could see the shadow near her feet.

She swallowed five gallons of seawater that had gathered under her tongue. “Be…because you sounded…harsh.” _Please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me I beg you I can’t bear it I will definitely become a septa and not just be_ thinking _about becoming a septa if you don’t hate me I swear!_

Brienne reached out and took one hand in hers, despite the gross chipped polish. “I _was_ harsh, because you did a very foolish thing that could have been extremely dangerous! What if you had been hovering over land? You’d have broken your neck! Has no one ever taught you even basic self-preservation?”

Marg blinked rapidly, but her lash extensions were sticking together, weaving clotty spiderwebs over her vision as she finally looked up. “Oh yes, like how to spot a shady accountant, and how to sabotage a hostile takeover! Even how to redirect funds through the Summer Isles if the quarterly hotel auditor isn’t a friendly!”

Brienne also blinked rapidly, grimaced just a little, closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last part. Moving on...Margaery, those are business skills, not self-preservation skills. Of your person. _You_. How to cross an intersection when the traffic lights are out, how to build a fire, how to make a tourniquet. That sort of thing.”

Margaery blinked.

Brienne looked like she was trying to smile over a grimace, and it was terrifying. “So what would you do in those situations?”

“Well…I would wait until the driver moved the car or called the traffic light people to make them fix it, then I would call my brother Garlan to start a fire since he’s really good at the outdoor stuff, then I would look up tourniquet on my dictionary app.” Margaery nodded to herself in satisfaction.

Brienne shook her head really, _really_ , back and forth. “Oh no. No Margaery, those solutions are _not_ practical!” She glanced away with what looked like concern in her pretty eyes, almost talking just to herself. “I’m going to have to send you all to bootcamp. And my child is _not_ growing up to be of the Lannister-Tyrell mindset where you _know a_ _guy_ for all your problems.” She turned back to Marg. “You have to learn how to help yourself, Margaery. Start by never again leaning out of a helicopter, all right?”

Marg nodded through her remaining tears. “I promise! And you don’t hate me? Like, really you don’t hate me?!?!”

Brienne’s kind smile gifted itself to Marg who felt as though she were receiving a silk favor from a Queen. “I absolutely do not hate you. I’m worried for you, that’s all. And I’m not kidding about bootcamp. Maybe I’ll start one myself for wayward heiresses.”

Marg’s smiled was a mile wide. Brienne didn’t hate her! _And now I will take the vows of a septa. Grandmother might know a guy for that._

Brienne cleared her throat. “Just out of curiosity, are septa’s collars in fashion now?”

“Oh, no! They’re hideous, aren’t they?!” Marg patted the edges of the dank collar resting like a turkey platter around her neck. “I’m going to pledge myself to the Crone or something because I looked into a fire in Asshai after this old woman told me to eat a weird mushroom, and in the fire I saw that I would never have really good sex like you and Hot Uncle Jaime, so I’m going to be celibate now and become septa. Isn’t that amazing?”

Brienne looked like she was going to choke! Oh no, did she swallow like some tiny fish?!?! But she swallowed, so it must be okay, and she stood up, slowly and methodically and she clutched the blanket around her. The lingering smile had thinned. “Next lesson, _never_ accept mushrooms from strangers. Or anyone. Ever.” She moved toward the front door and was still talking even though her back was turned now. “Bootcamp. Immediately. I need a survivalist, or…an army colonel…”

Marg watched her until she disappeared inside, mumbling the whole time. The septa’s collar itched like an ingrown cooch hair, but Marg would just have to get used to it. She hadn’t even told Myrcy and Sansa yet! She thought Myrcy might understand the romance of the celibate septa, so full of longing yet denied the pleasures of the flesh, but Sansa might object because of the whole boyfriend thing. Because of Willas, Sansa now wanted everyone to have a poetic, mandolin-obsessed, wood-burner boyfriend, but Margaery Tyrell was not cut out for poetry. She wanted the fiery passion of a thousand galloping stallions like Hot Uncle Jaime or _nothing_ dammit. She would be the first business executive septa, and she would smash the shit out of that job.

She got up and fixed the wedgy situation, seeing her friends waiting in the gazebo a little way from the house, their arms crossed on the rail as they pouted at her. They looked like innocent beautiful children, especially Myrcy. Marg started toward them. Myrcy probably looked a lot like what the future O-T-P daughter would look like. They had all decided that Hot Uncle Jaime and Unicorn Brienne were going to have three children, two girls and one boy, and their names would be Iana, Quil, and Florjon.

Marg stopped in her tracks. Dramatically and with a little skidding. What was that Hot Uncle Jaime had said about Brienne’s _condition_ ?!?! And what had Unicorna said about _her_ child not doing something something whatever?!?!

Fucking fuck, by the old gods and the new and such, and the fire mushroom, and the kraken, and the tree boy and whatever…Brienne Lannistarth-Tarthister was _pregnant_ . It was everything they had _ever_ wanted and yet _no!_ Not now, not before the epic beach wedding! They were going totally out of order! The awesome babycorn coming too early might ruin _everything_.

She could not tell _them_ . The blood of her sister-blood, her dear hearts of innocence and awesome plans. They could not keep such knowledge to themselves. Obviously Hot Uncle Jaime knew, but since Myrcy had not texted her any kind of frantic freakout message, Myrcy did _not_ know, so neither did Sansa. The O-T-P had not _told_ yet. Margaery Tyrell might not know how to cross a traffic walk section, but she knew how to _plan_ , and now she’d have to find a way to _plan_ around this fabmazing hiccup. But maybe she should also take a vow of silence…

 

* * *

 

“You’re sure I have to find the place in your second clue? You want to _wait_ for that, _Brienne_ ?” He’d said her name in _that_ way, purred it through his lush lips after she’d gone back into the house to shower, and he’d ended his call with whoever owned the nearest helicopter-safe landing location.

Brienne had to stop herself from sighing like some randy teenager, a phase which she herself had never gone through. Perhaps all those years of pent up longing had finally caught up with her despite the obscenely hot outlet she’d had for the last three years. _Something_ was certainly giving her grief in the lust department. Since he’d thrown her against that driftwood log and they’d been interrupted, she could barely look at Jaime or even think his name without wanting to shred his clothes with her teeth. Not when she’d easily easily fetched poor clueless Margaery from the sea and Jaime’s eyes had gleamed with concern. Not when she’d helped the girl make it to the porch and wrapped a blanket around her, and Jaime had handed her a second blanket and brushed his fingers down her arm. Not when he’d gone inside to sort the helicopter fiasco and had bitten his damned bloody lip.

So when he’d asked if she’d wanted to _wait_ ...well, no. She did _not_. But she’d insisted, despite alluring protestations on his part, that she not partake while smelling of seaweed. It was disgusting. He’d pouted, seductively, but she’d shooed him away until she could scrub herself clean, feel the streams of hot water flow over her skin, imagine it was his hands…

The stairs seemed to take ages to descend. The scent of Tommen’s vanilla cake wafted from the kitchen. She sighed, because if another cake were being baked, then Tommen was down there, and who knew how many other random persons who were unfortunately not a naked Jaime.

Gods, there was her father, too. She really hoped she wasn’t lobster red and giving herself away to the poor innocent souls of the family.

Jaime was sitting at the table, chatting with monotone Willas Tyrell, and he looked up and _knew_. She could tell immediately. It was deep in his eyes, the burning lust that made her feel like she was already naked.

“But this time I washed the eggs a lot better, because I realized that flightless avian feces even at a cellular level would not be desired in a cake for Aunt Tysha.”

Brienne swallowed thickly and looked at Tommen even though she knew she wasn’t successfully concealing her distracted state.

Jaime sucked in a breath and did the same, but he crossed his legs under the table.

“What was that, Tom?” Jaime said breathlessly.

“The cake! Aunt Tysha’s cake! This one is a lot better. But I need butter for the icing, and Grandfather Selwyn is using it for the cat.” Tommen glanced over at her father.

She shared a look with Jaime that for one second was _not_ lascivious.

“Um, Dad?” She moved toward her father, and could now see that Gatehouse Ami was on his lap as he perched on a stool by the kitchen island. At his feet, Ser Pounce stretched up and patted his coveralls with manic little taps. Selwyn grinned at her, but continued massaging something into Gatehouse Ami’s fur just behind the tail. “What in the world?”

“Brilliant idea! The Westerweb recommends it.” Selwyn continued to do whatever he was doing, but both cats seemed to be in a state of frenzy. Ser Pounce let out a pathetic, longing howl.

“Westerweb always has _perfect_ ideas,” Jaime chuckled wickedly.

“Or _purrrfect_! Ha!” Selwyn guffawed.

“That is an amusing cat joke, Grandfather Selwyn!” Tommen grinned.

“I could burn it onto wood if you’d like,” Willas offered.

“Perfect for what?” Brienne demanded.

“Well…” Selwyn glanced at Tommen from his periphery and seemed a little embarrassed. “Gatehouse Ami is in _heat_.”

Ah. Hence Ser Pounce’s sudden transformation from docile fur mannequin to manic horncat. Somewhat like…her. Hmm. Maybe there was something in the water.

“I see, but what are you _doing_?” She stepped forward a little and rued the decision immediately as Gatehouse Ami stretched in her father’s arms and brushed her fur against Brienne’s arm, leaving behind a greasy streak.  

“It’s garlic butter! Westerweb said it discourages _attraction_ .” Selwyn nodded enthusiastically and he finished rubbing _garlic butter_ onto a cat.

“Dad?” she placed a hand on his arm and stared at him.

“Yes, my girl?”

“That isn’t going to work. It’s butter. You can’t butter a cat.” She was certain now that the complete insanity of those ridiculous girls had somehow worn off onto her usually-sensible father.

“We’ll see! Can’t hurt anyway, it’s just garlic butter.”

“The cat is not a batch of your biscuits!” Brienne proclaimed.

She could feel _him_ behind her, maybe an arm’s length away. She couldn’t turn or she’d likely melt with one look, so she decided to withdraw gracefully from the butter/father/boy/cat/cake situation and attempt to make it to the porch. She should really wipe off that butter first…

Too late. Jaime gripped her arm just below the elbow. It felt like fire scorching her skin, but in a delicious way.

Was the lusty cat altering her psyche? Gatehouse Ami exuding some kind of pheromone? Could she be pregnancy-horny this early? Did it matter?

No.

“Well, Dad, I hope it works for you. And for Ser Pounce. I’m going to take a walk and maybe talk to Jaime about my book ideas. I’m shockingly behind schedule. Really.” She swallowed her nerves, and it didn’t seem that Selwyn or Tommen were paying enough attention to her to see how red her face had to be from the blatant lie about her intentions. Good.

“All right, my girl. It’s beautiful out, all that late afternoon sun.”

“I am going to make a third cake and use more eggs.” Tommen was already off in his own little land.

“I will whittle a plaque,” said Willas.

She could turn then, be slow and casual and avoid drawing attention,, but she instead marched out of the kitchen and out the front door and didn’t stop until her sandaled feet touched the sandy dirt of the path to the woods.

His hand had slid down to clasp hers. He squeezed. “Where are we going?” He sounded as out of breath as she felt.

“Did you solve the second clue?”

He shook his head, confused. “Not yet. There’s been no time.”

“Yes, you did,” she nodded and gave him a _look_ , “I distinctly remember how you figured out that this trail takes you to a fork, and if you take the right fork and go down a bit, there’s a giant old tree that split and has a space in the middle where ferns grow and dew gathers. I really remember you finding that, Jaime.”

His eyes went wide. “I was very clever to have solved that so quickly. Do I get a prize?” His chest was heaving and he bit that damned lower lip.

“Yes.”

She didn’t wait for him to take the lead, but walked so fast down the path it was almost a half-jog, thinking she’d have to drag him to catch up since she certainly wasn’t letting go of his hand. Instead, he caught her in seconds and matched her speed with the same frantic energy exuding from his body. Her long strides were eating up the trail, and though she hadn’t been down this particular way in ages, she didn’t even have to think about the direction. A good thing considering her state.

There it was, the old tree. She had spent countless hours perched on the bed of ferns between its branches, a soft bed for dreaming and now for _other things_ . Adult things. Who needed to dream or even sleep when Jaime was _this_ hot? The girls must be infecting her with their fancies, too.

Jaime didn’t let her get all the way to the tree. She found herself spun around and pushed against the trunk of a smaller oak, his mouth on hers and his tongue thrusting between her lips.

She clutched his head between her hands, pulling him as close as he could get and feeling consumed by him, and still it wasn’t enough. She slid her hands down and ripped his shirt open, dancing her fingertips over his burning skin.

He panted as he lifted his head, eyes almost black. “What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining, because _my gods_ …”

“Nothing’s in me. Fix that.” She bit his bottom lip and felt him shudder.

He bit her back, then, “We’re never leaving Tarth. Ever.” And he lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his waist, and he carried her to the huge tree.

The ferns were as soft as she remembered when he knelt down and eased her to her back, but that or any other coherent thought fled immediately as he started biting and licking a frenzied trail down her body.

“You wanted me thirsty, Brienne. I’m a man in the desert, I swear.” He yanked her tee-shirt up and dipped his tongue into her navel, and she arched until her muscles ached. She really had no idea what he was talking about, and didn’t care one bit.

She smelled garlic.

Somehow, It was distracting. Her fingers snaked through Jaime’s hair as he unzipped her jeans, but she had to turn her face to smell her arm, maybe try to wipe off that distracting garlic butter with a fern.

There was so little on her skin that the scent was barely there anymore, yet there was so much garlic coming from _somewhere._ She turned to glance beyond Jaime, at the edge of the ferns.

Gatehouse Ami sat on her haunches, watching them with her huge kohl-rimmed eyes, tail twitching.

The damned cat did spend time in the woods. Jaime pulled her jeans down and nipped along the skin above her panties. Brienne leaned her head back and closed her eyes, focusing only on how Jaime’s hand felt on her hip, how the skin of his stump warmed her thigh, how his hair just brushed her flesh.

The cat was watching her. She could feel it. Over her own panting, she heard a horrendous mewling sound that did not derive from Gatehouse Ami.

It took her a moment, and honestly, she did not blame herself considering the beauty of Jaime’s skin moving against hers, but once she realized…

It was the sound of Ser Pounce searching for the object of his cat lust, the same pitiful mewl of longing he’d emitted in the kitchen. She and Ser Pounce were one in that moment, two creatures with _needs_.

But when Ser Pounce appeared anywhere, for any reason, at any time, Tommen was not far behind. She sucked in a deep, fortifying breathe and rolled Jaime over using her thighs and frantically pulling her shirt back together after yanking up her jeans.

Jaime looked totally dazed. “What’s wrong?”

She hissed. “Cats!”

Jaime blinked in confusion, then glanced around until she saw that he’d spotted Gatehouse Ami. She watched him focus on the mewling, and then _he_ knew.

“Oh gods, Ser Pounce is loose!”

“So it seems, which means he has to be caught, which means Tommen is minutes away if that. And probably everyone else. And we’re half naked.” She tried to button his shirt, but there were buttons no more, so she slid his wedding ring around to at least hide in the back. There was no way he could stand up in his current state, not in front of children or borderline-children at least. Or fathers. Or anyone even adjacently related. Really that only left Willas Tyrell which still seemed wrong somehow.

She made a split-second decision and rolled off Jaime to grab for Gatehouse Ami. The beast was slick from the garlic butter, and Brienne almost failed, but she managed to get hold of the little voyeur and set her in Jaime’s lap. “Keep her there. She’ll hide you, and Ser Pounce will find us.”

Jaime settled the cat but grimaced. “Ouch.”

Gatehouse Ami emitted a little mini-roar like a dainty lion.

Brienne listened for more Ser Pounce sounds. They became more frequent, and closer, and in only a minute or so, Ser Pounce’s besotted face darted into view as his fat body launched itself at Jaime. She caught him in a tackle, hugging him closely to her mangled shirt.

She glanced at Jaime’s disheveled form. “We are not at all presentable.”

“Not one bit.” He grinned at her. “Blame the cats. They’ve managed to pop half the buttons off my shirt, the clever bastards.”

“Nobody’s going to believe that! It’s going to be obvious that we were…you know.” She blushed as usual, and that was just exasperating at this point.

“But we _weren’t_. Brienne.” Just when his pupils had normalized he had to reverse all that progress. “Not yet. I promise to remedy that as soon as humanly possible.”

She was going to say something, maybe about details or a timeline, anything really, just to get him to respond so she could watch his lips move. But Ser Pounce kept squirming to get to Gatehouse Ami who seemed relatively calm and accepting of whatever fate awaited her in the arms of cat or man.

Jaime chuckled. “I think we should take pity and just let them fuck. The poor thing’s as frustrated as I am right now.”

“Tommen would be upset.” She sighed, silently agreeing with Jaime.

“Tommen has no conception of _needs_. I want to keep it that way until he’s fifty, but poor Ser Pounce shouldn’t suffer along the way.”

 _Needs_. Like hers. Ser Pounce looked up at her with a silent plea in his poor kitty eyes. She nodded at him, for she and Ser Pounce remained one.

“Ser Pounce??!?!?” Tom’s panicked voice flooded the woods, along with another that Brienne thought was attached to Willas.

She looked at Jaime and huffed.

He rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Tommen? Over here!” she shouted.

Feet dashed through the underbrush and soon found them. Tommen was ghastly pale and covered in flour, and Willas’ poet blouse was ruined by shred marks and thin streaks of blood.

Tommen came to a stop in front of Brienne and collapsed onto his bony little knees. “I am afraid that…I am, possibly, too attached to my animals, because I am suffering a frightening series of conflicting emotions all day long, and it might be best for me to transfer my attentions to baked goods. But I cannot, because I love them so.”

Brienne handed mewling Ser Pounce over to Tom’s waiting arms. “I know, Tom, I know.”

Willas Tyrell, completely out of breath, sank against a tree trunk with a hand clutched to his chest.

Jaime cleared his throat to gain Tom’s attention. “There’s a simple solution to at least one of your problems.”

Tommen rested his cheek on Ser Pounce’s mewling face, though the cat had pretty much given up on his quest for the promised land. “What is that, Uncle Jaime?”

Jaime nodded toward Gatehouse Ami, now purring. “Let them… _breed_. Yes, I know you dislike the genetic makeup or whatever, but perhaps you should listen to what Ser Pounce himself wants?”

Brienne smiled a little in approval at Jaime’s tactic.

Tommen contemplated, staring first at Ser Pounce then at Gatehouse Ami.

“Their kittens would have very beautiful eyes,” Brienne suggested.

Tommen’s own green eyes went wide. “I had not thought of what the _kittens_ would be like! A whole family of cats…”

Jaime sat up further in alarm. “Family?” He looked at Brienne. “What have I done?”

Brienne shrugged, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling, because whatever this was, _it_ always happened. “Needs, Jaime. _Needs_.”

From the tree trunk, Willas Tyrell gasped, “Loras is right. You’re all completely insane.”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion Lannister watched in fascination as Selwyn Tarth bandaged Willas Tyrell’s scratched chest with some cheesecloth and duct tape. It appeared that at least one more of the hundred or so Tarths on Tarth were as resourceful as Brienne, though Tyrion had been assured that Selwyn’s branch was _the_ branch. Selwyn was quite proud of the Evenstar title that had not been in use for a hundred years.

Over the course of their several conversations since the completely insane chicken arrival (Tyrion had sworn to himself, every god, and the blood of Tywin himself that he would never, ever, travel with chickens, ever again), Tyrion had also discovered that Selwyn Tarth was three things. He was (expectedly) as kind as his initial introduction promised him to be, he was (expectedly) easy to get along with and seemed to take a liking to just about everybody without judgement, and he was (unexpectedly) a hopeless romantic.

It was _he_ who was egging on those maniac girls into planning a beach wedding for Jaime and Brienne. Selwyn had told him all about how he’d faked falling off a roof last year just to maneuver Brienne into getting a more epic engagement and how he’d bartered some Tarth beachfront property with a King’s Landing realtor so Brienne could afford her apartment when she’d first started writing. Tyrion was certain that Brienne did _not_ know about that one.

Tyrion discovered that Selwyn Tarth would do literally anything to make his daughter happy. Selwyn had not said so, but Tyrion was clever. He could read, or hear, between the lines.

They had shared a bottle of the local barrel-aged seaweed and grapeberry ale, a Tarth speciality which was shockingly not vile, as well as a chuckle while discussing Jaime’s various insane antics in his quest to prove his love for Selwyn’s daughter. It had made Tyrion’s chest feel warm, just a little bit. From the beer. Fine, maybe to know another person that could see who his brother really was. A man whose absurd attractiveness masked most of his personality to those who weren’t paying attention, but to those who were…he was capable of immense love and loyalty, and he was protective if sometimes oblivious, and he was also a complete dork.

Tyrion and Selwyn had bonded. So Tyrion could not tell the grandfatherly gentleman _not_ to conspire to plan a wonderful wedding for his only daughter and the man who was basically obsessed with her.

Besides, Tysha really, really liked Selwyn. She had no family, not a soul, so despite his fright soon after their first date that his raucous insane relations would scare her, they had not. In fact, she matched them in energy in all matters apart from lizard care.

He was beginning to realize that he was going to have to do something about it all. Maybe he had more in common with his brother than he thought.

“Ow,” Willas mumbled.

“Oh, shush, it’s just a little duct tape on a few chest hairs. Not that you have many, boy!” Selwyn chuckled.

“How exactly did this happen again?” Tyrion asked.

Willas shrugged. Selwyn grimaced just like Brienne did. “Cats tend to cat. Right, all done.”

“Can I get cat scratch fever from this?” Willas paled.

“Well now, depends on whether Ser Pounce is plague carrier.” Selwyn winked at Tyrion as Willas placed a hand over his heart.

“What will I tell Sansa?” Willas wailed.

There was a knock on the front door.

“Oh hells, the fool’ll wake up your Tysha with that banging on. Sweet girl.” Selwyn strode out of the front room to get the door.

Sweet girl indeed. Too sweet for Tyrion, he knew, but he hadn’t let her go yet. Poor thing had been so worried and exhausted that she’d slept most of the day apart from breakfast which Selwyn had arranged on a tray that had belonged to Brienne’s mother and that he’d instructed Tyrion to take up to her.

Selwyn returned with a septon right behind him. “Now see here, Edric, it’s just not time to bust out your septon powers yet! You’ve got to stay in the barn.”

Young Septon Edric looked familiar somehow, but Tyrion couldn’t remember ever meeting him before. Just something in his face…

“Yes, Mr. Tarth, but it’s proving difficult to fulfill my sept duties when the office is next to the little asses. The septishioners won’t come out here to work out the schedule, and Mrs. Baratheon from Storm’s End is demanding my attendance at her storm season bonfire.”

“Mrs. Baratheon…Stannis’ wife?” Tyrion asked. The world couldn’t be _that_ small.

Septon Edric nodded. “Yes, do you know of her?”

Tyrion cackled. “She’s adjacently related, unfortunately. How is her pickling hobby progressing?”

Septon Edric stiffened. “We do not speak of it.”

“Well you can speak of this, _Edric_ , you stay in that barn until I get my daughter married off to this here fellow’s brother, and you can thank the little asses for keeping your bigger ass warm in that drafty place.” Selwyn nodded commandingly.

“Yes, Mr. Tarth.” Edric swallowed and paused for a second. “And thank you for the donation to resolve the sept’s mould problem.” He shuffled his feet but stared up at Selwyn.

Whose brows rose mightily. “You’re a brazen lad, aren’t you!” Selwyn glared but it melted almost immediately into a jolly grin. He slapped Edric on the back. “I like it! Mould no more!”

There was another bang on the door. With all the people Tyrion knew to be roaming this island, it couldn’t be anybody sane.

Selwyn grumbled and moved to answer the door for the second time, but Tyrion heard it slam open, and in seconds, Margaery Tyrell burst in.

“Oh my gods, Willasssss, are you dying?!?!” Margaery threw herself at her brother.

“I don’t know!” Willas clutched his sister’s hand and pressed it against his bandaged chest. “It could be plague!”

Selwyn Tarth smacked his forehead with the palm of one giant hand. “Gods, boy, you can’t take a joke! He’s fine, dearie, but you’re going to freeze in the middle of summer in that getup.”

“It’s on trend.” She shrugged, and jerked her hand from Willas’. “And also, bro, oh my gods, yaasssss, little Tommen said you were injured in the line of duty, so I thought you’d gotten yourself stabbed in a mugging or something, and I had to find out whether or not you were dying before I could tell Sansa that you might be dying, because she’d faint, and we’d have to prepare for that. But obviously I showered first, because I just fell into the sea and absolutely _reeked_ like that gross friend of Sansa’s brother.” Margaery fanned herself with her hands and started pacing the room.

“There are no muggings on Tarth. This isn’t the _North_!” Selwyn muttered.

Willas Tyrell sank to the sofa and covered his face his both hands. “I need peace and solitude.”

“Oh gods, I just have like…sooo much sexual energy right now! I’m very hyper, you know?” Margaery continued to pace. At least she wasn’t a minor anymore so none of them could get arrested just for being in the same room with her.

“Ew, Marg! Nobody needs to hear that!” Willas shouted, and he started humming to himself.

“Shush, boy, or you’ll wake the girl!” Selwyn cautioned.

Margaery apparently just spotted Septon Edric hovering near the sofa, and she halted in front of him. “Do I know you?”

Edric cleared his throat. “I don’t believe so.”

Margaery leaned closer. “I don’t know…you look so familiar. Hey! I have a question!”

“O…okay?”

“Yes! Oh septon, fire Smith of the deep or something, do you think I would make a good septa?” Margaery peered at the poor Edric Storm, innocent sacrifice to wiles.

“First, the title is simply _septon_ as I believe you are confusing various religious imagery into one salutation.” Edric nodded to himself as if pleased with his careful choice of words.

“Whatever, I barely passed World Religions for Business People. Anyway, would I?”

Tyrion then noticed just what Margaery was wearing. A very short, very tight black mini skirt and a black crop top with a stiffly-starched septa’s collar around her neck. He’d just thought she had terrible fashion sense.

Septon Edric scanned her up and down. A little too long. “Any woman can choose the path of virtue and dedication, but the journey is difficult. Few prevail.”

“Yeah, yeah, I could do it, obvs,” Margaery rolled her eyes, “but like, could I do _without_ it, you know? Sex. Boning. Banging. Bang City. Screwing. Shagging. Oysters clams and cockles. The ol’ fuckaroo. Hmm?”

For once, Selwyn Tarth was silent, and so was Tyrion. Willas had gone so still he might possibly have passed out on the sofa.

Septon Storm swallowed thickly. “I…I don’t quite know…”

Margaery threw her hands up and let them down to slap her exposed thighs. “Of course you do! This!”

And Margaery Tyrell snogged the absolute hells out of Septon Edric Storm. It was…gross. And moist.

Tyrion wanted to gag. Once, he would have stared at Margaery Tyrell’s fully-adult-and-not-a-minor ass with an eye for more than her attire. Maybe admitted that she didn’t appear to be a half-bad kisser if she would just allow her partner to breathe a bit more, but that part of him was gone, and he was glad for it. Because this was uncomfortable, and possibly revolting.

She let up with a smacking down, like a suction cup popping its seal from a shower wall.

“See? That. Ooh, it’s already been too long, but don’t worry, I won’t tempt you because I’m a very good girl! Bye!” And Margaery strutted out with her hips swaying directly in Septon Edric’s sightline.

Selwyn Tarth looked at him. “That girl is a real life Gatehouse Ami in human flesh. _Trouble_.”

“We know. Brienne’s usually got it covered.” Tyrion shrugged.

“Of course she does.” Selwyn looked over at Willas, but the boy was air mandolin-ing.

 


	6. In Which There is a Wallowing Cat, a Waiter, and a Waterfall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's been an age, I KNOW!
> 
> A series of unfortunate events delayed my ficcing (what's new in that department?), but I AM FINISHING. I'm almost done with this fic, and I'm just spitting chapters until it's all posted. Thank you to everyone who has read this insanity, and I'm so sorry I missed some comment replies!
> 
> Special thanks to Mikki for reading even my worst at any hour, to Danyel and Gumtree for prodding me incessantly, and to the unicorns of JBO that got me through my wretched winter.

 

Jaime sank onto the sofa, now perpetually coated in sand, cat hair, whatever was always stuck on Briann’s foot, and a little bit of Tommen’s leftover cake. It made for a much better breakfast than dessert, more like a three-layer omelet covered in buttercream, but Brienne had proclaimed it delicious when it had been served on a silver platter after dinner, in honor of Tysha the Courageous.

And there was so much of it, they were all back to feast on the remains. Mostly because there wasn’t anything else left in either house. It had been an slow, crowded night. Little sleep, and not for the right reasons.

Brienne’s third clue burned a hole in his pocket. She had retrieved it from the pile of disheveled forest floor, people, and animals, and he had only been able to scan it _once_ before they had to make an appearance in the polite society for a group dinner. Then there was the cat, but he wasn’t going to think of Ser Pounce’s stymied lust. Not when the bloody beast’s condition had spread to him, too.   


_When I was a girl, I dreamed of falling for the most honorable knight in the realm._

_The place where I dreamed is the damp castle of twin blades._

_Find where I slake the soil’s thirst, and your next clue._

 

Such innuendo! She was turning into a temptress. Jaime sighed. There was nothing he could do about at the moment. There had been nothing he could do about it last night! It might be the longest they’d gone in a year. Tommen had still been concerned about Briann the Lizard’s emotional state and believed he might be in need of some individual attention. He’d pleaded that Ser Pounce stay in the “grown-up room” with them so he couldn’t get out to find Gatehouse Ami. Tommen _only_ really trusted Brienne. And now possibly Tysha, but the poor woman had still been exhausted. Brienne had looked at him as the pleading eyes of their beloved zookeeper melted their resolve. He’d grimaced but nodded. Their fate had been sealed.

One would think that the presence of a singular cat, however horny himself, wouldn’t interfere so completely in human conjugal bliss. But no...every time Jaime tried even to kiss his wife, there were Ser Pounce’s beady green eyes, peering over the duvet.

He’d paced all night. There had been no conjugal bliss. It was genuinely painful, in his heart _and_ his pants.

Tyrion appeared from the kitchen, full of shouting people and chicken feathers. He perched on the edge of the battered coffee table.

“Too much for you?” Jaime grinned.

“You always were the loud one.” Tyrion smiled sentimentally in return “Chasing dogs and horses and sword fighting with sticks.”

“You loved that! You can’t tell me you didn’t.” Jaime poked his plastic spork in Tyrion’s direction.

“I think I preferred the book-versions, but I loved running around with you.” Tyrion’s expression was odd, as if he were lost in his head.

“You’re getting maudlin on me. Girl trouble?” Jaime guessed.

Tyrion’s gaze snapped up, the different colors of his eyes reflecting the harsh kitchen light. “Not _trouble_. Not at all.”

Jaime sat back and laughed. “Have you decided what to do about your _trouble_?”

“I...no.”

“You know? I know you _know_. That’s established.”

“I mean that I don’t know what to _do_. Don’t be obtuse.” Tyrion glared, but there was only humor in his eyes. “So. What do I do about it?”

“You’re asking me? I’m not exactly known for my calm, sensible ideas in this department.” Jaime chuckled to himself, almost, _almost_ telling Tyrion about his secret wedding, but he really didn’t want to do that without talking to Brienne first.

Tyrion looked a little bit unsure, not at all his usual mask of complete assurance. “What if…maybe I don’t want to be sensible.”

Jaime knew then exactly what Tyrion needed. He needed his big brother to do what he’d always done, and protect him from Tywin, and tell him that Tysha was wonderful and that Jaime wouldn’t let all those _Lannister_ things hurt her.

Jaime gripped Tyrion’s shoulder with his one hand, the one that had survived the last time Jaime had protected his brother. “If you want her, you need to do three things, baby brother. You need to stop taking any of father’s money from this moment on, not one single fucking dragon. Never again. You can work with me, and you will seriously have to cut down on your expensive liquor, but you won’t have to live in Fleabottom. Next, you need to tell Tysha exactly how you feel, in no uncertain words. No dissembling or joking. No thinking you’re not good enough for her, because that doesn’t matter if she doesn’t think it matters, and she won’t. Finally, you need make sure you’re ready for this, because if you make this permanent and I ever catch you ever again staring at some model’s ass, I will run you out of the city myself because Brienne will flay me for letting Tysha get hurt. It’s not _all_ about you.”

Tyrion blinked, several times and swallowed thickly. “And if I do all those things and promise to spit on models, not sexually but in rejection, it will all be okay?”

“If you love her enough to _want_ to do all those things, it will all be okay.”

Tyrion nodded to himself. “I do.” And his tone sounded a little bit shocked.

Jaime grinned. “Good. I expected this, but maybe not for a few more months at least. You’re the horse and buggy to my bullet train.”

Tyrion’s face seemed to relax as his shoulders looked set with resolve. He peered at Jaime. “You _are_ sort of disgustingly giddy lately.”

Jaime sighed to himself, because it really was true. He shrugged. “I’m disgustingly happy. You’ll see, it will make you stupid, too.”

Tyrion’s grimace nearly matched Brienne’s occasional expression of disdain. “I’m already giving up my liquor. It’s happened.”

The sound of their respective objects of obsession floated down the stairs. They both turned to watch for Brienne and Tysha with identical postures, and they briefly glanced at each other with amusement in their eyes.

Brienne appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She wore a clean shirt the approximate shade of Jaime’s plague of blue balls. His seemed to suddenly seize up and howl just like poor thwarted Ser Pounce who was confined to the house until Tommen decided whether to let him have an upstairs-downstairs relationship with a barn cat.

Tysha had finally regained her usual energy and bounced down after Brienne, her gaze immediately finding Tyrion, and she flashed a huge smile.

Tyrion blushed.

_Tyrion._

His brother. Jaime had never, ever seen him blush. Yes, this was _it_ . Jaime would make sure that _nothing_ stood in the way of his brother’s happiness. He got up to stand next to Brienne, whispering close to her ear, but trying not to make it obvious so no one would start asking inappropriate questions. “Are you all right? You seem better this morning.”

“We’ll see, but yes, I feel good.” She blushed, deeper than usual, so she was about reference the very thing that was plaguing him. The anticipation only made it worse for his pants. “Not as good as I could be if we’d been alone.”

He averted his eyes from her too-tempting skin, but couldn’t resist brushing his fingers over the skin of her exposed arm. She shivered.

“There might be time if we get rid of everyone,” she suggested without much hint of her typical hesitancy. Her sickness must be making her extra _hungry_.

“Send them all to Essos. All expenses paid.” He twined his pinky with hers.

“Or the beach.” She sucked in a breath and whistled loudly. The din of the numerous occupants ceased as if she were a drill sergeant or a mother of ten.

She was going to make an incredible mother. He felt himself grinning like an idiot, and if anyone happened to glance at him, he’d look as deranged as everyone else. He didn’t care, because he decided right then that he wanted ten children. Myrcy and Tommen did count, really, so he’d settle for eight more. If that dream came true, this would likely be the quietest day of the rest of his life. Willas Tyrell was right, they _were_ all insane.

“All right,” Brienne nodded as she scanned the visible parts of the ground floor. “Let’s make sure everyone has what they need, since I assume we’ll all be outside on this beautiful day. Sunscreen’s in the beach bin by the door, and extra hats. Do we have everyone?”

“Yes,” said the requested everyone like a mindless mob.

She let go of his hand and placed hers sassily on her hips. “You can’t just say _yes_ and expect that to be good enough.” She rolled her eyes, then looked at Tommen. “Animal inventory?”

Tommen took one step forward from his place in the line around the kitchen island. “The chickens are in Grandfather Selwyn’s coop in the little ass barn with the little asses and the septon, and also Gatehouse Ami who has been forbidden to leave until she is summoned for a flea dip. Briann the Lizard is still very tired and is sleeping in the upstairs bathtub, but I made sure there isn’t anything he can eat or run into, and I recorded my lullabies from last night. Ser Pounce,” and Tom held up his beloved mewling Lothario and displayed him at Brienne, “is here because he still cannot be trusted not to escape to the barn, even though he’s also very tired as apparently he was not given his night warm milk.”

“I’m so sorry Tommen, really. It was a bit crazy yesterday, and no, we should not have forgotten Ser Pounce’s warm milk. Or yours.” Brienne smiled ruefully at the boy. Jaime did feel badly, but he really couldn’t keep track of all the quirky foods and drinks Tommen required at specific times of day.

Brienne could.

Jaime furrowed his brow, something else that Tommen said coming to the fore. “This is the second time someone has said something about a septon in the barn.”

Selwyn smacked his hand on the counter. “It’s a..bird! A fat old bird, a _hawk_. Named him Septon ‘cause he’s always looking for a handout.” Selwyn barked out a loud laugh that seemed to morph from forced to genuine in a flash. Jaime’s brow furrowed more.

Tommen took a step back to fall in line, then glared up at Selwyn. “There is a _hawk_ in with the chickens and the cat?”

“Oh, um, he’s fat. And old. Blind. Has one wing. Has to be hand-fed trout chips. No danger, little lad.” Selwyn patted Tom on the head, but it did not seem to convince the concerned chicken owner.

Brienne glanced at him, those hypnotizing blue eyes communicating disbelief. And lust. Things were getting urgent. When he could finally get her alone, they were going to break that kitchen island right in half. Granite, just snapped like a twig.

She looked away. He could see her blush creep up the back of her neck, and he grinned more.

“Fine,” she sighed, “human inventory. Father?”

“Oh, uh, what?” Selwyn scratched his head.

“Say _here_. Just do it,” she demanded.

“Here, just do it.” Selwyn chuckled and accepted Myrcy’s high-five.

“Uncooperative ne’re-do-wells. I’m tallying you like tiny children.” And she raised one hand and head-counted them. She grimaced a little. “Where is Arya?”

Sansa raised her hand.

“Yes, Sansa?” Brienne called on her.

“I think she went to find that waterfall on the cover of the Tarth tourist brochure. We read it in the car on the way here, and she said she wanted to try to water dance there.”

Brienne’s blush vanished as her skin paled. She cocked her head as she always did when she was trying to hide sudden worry, so of course Jaime _became_ worried because why would she be worried to begin with?

She pursed her lips and blinked, then tried to collect herself. “That waterfall can be…dangerous. I’ll go find her, but I want to know where everyone plans to be for lunch, because I’m not about to lose track of any of you with our habit of frequent stupid crises.”

Myrcy spoke up, egg cake still crumbling from the corners of her mouth. “Can we go down to the Oyster Shack? Marg and Sansa haven’t tried the grillers yet, and I mean, _really,_ that’s the worst.”

“Sure, that’s sounds like a fun idea, although you are adults and don’t really have to ask. I just want to know where you’ll be in case of emergency.”

“I’ll make sure my phone is charged.” Myrcy smiled. “Come on girls! Beach and oysters!”

Sansa turned to Willas. “Are you coming, too?”

Willas seemed to ponder the fate of the universe for a moment, scratching his chest through his poet shirt. A bit of duct tape showed through the neck laces. Jaime didn’t even want to know.

Willas finally responded, “Even though I don’t have the plague or cat scratch fever, I may still be vulnerable to some hideous sea virus. I think I require some rest. This has been a trying day, and I might need to purge my emotions by writing a song about a storm that is a metaphor for an evil cat.”

Ser Pounce hissed, and Willas recoiled, putting his hand up protectively over his chest.

Sansa blinked owlishly, and without another word, she stomped out the front door. Myrcy darted to follow her, but Marg halted.

“Oh dear brother, you dumbass.” Marg patted him on the arm and left, too.

Selwyn looked down at Willas. “You can go hide yourself in the library at my house, boy. Write that song and think about your stormcat and contemplate how you screwed up.”

“I screwed up?” Willas asked, looking startled and dismayed.

Selwyn nodded sagely. “Oh yeah.”

Willas stepped back and ran into the kitchen island. He rubbed absently at his arm. “I screwed up. I will immediately go contemplate a solution. In rhyme.” And Willas stumbled out.

“Young love.” Selwyn sighed. “It’s real stupid.”

“Speaking of…Tysha, I was thinking a walk on the beach might be nice?” Tyrion peered up at the next probably-secret-Lannister.

She nodded enthusiastically. “I’d love that! There’s a funny-looking driftwood log I spotted from Uncle Selwyn’s window that I want to see.” She winked at Tyrion.

Who had no idea what that meant, but Jaime did, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Brienne. Who was redder than ever. She remained so even after Tyrion and Tysha wandered off hand in hand.

Brinne cleared her throat. “I’m going to find Arya, and then we’ll figure out meals for the day.” She seemed urgent, as if Arya really were in danger, but Selwyn hadn’t reacted at all, and he knew the island as well as Brienne did.

Selwyn spoke up again. “How about we all look down by the waterfall? It’s beautiful this time of day, and I think Tommen would enjoy the view, right?”

Brienne fidgeted with the hem of her shirt and shuffled her feet. It was almost as if she were embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to see the waterfall. Surely it was _just_ a waterfall and not another phallic natural wonder?

Her eyes darted over to him but withdrew quickly as she tried to compose herself. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather teach Tommen how to make bass fricassee?”

Selwyn lit up, but poked a meaty finger at his daughter. “It _is_ my favorite, but I see you Little Blue! Don’t you worry, I’ll still make everyone some fine sea bass when we return. To think I’d make you cook when you haven’t even been feeling well!”

Brienne laughed nervously and very inauthentically. “Yes, of course, you found me out.”

Ah. Jaime narrowed his eyes. She _was_ embarrassed! Downright mortified! She did _not_ want anyone at the waterfall, including Arya Stark, so there had to be something there she didn’t want found.

Her fourth clue.

Of course. And judging by the first two, the third must be equally salacious. Jaime definitely didn’t want Arya or Selwyn or anyone else to see it.

“Well then,” he said to everyone remaining, “why don’t we have a nice look at the waterfall before we eat Selwyn’s delicious food. Brienne?” he turned toward her, “we haven’t had much exercise since you’ve been ill. Care for a quick run?”

Her eyes lit up immediately. “I already have good shoes on!”

He held out his hand. “Let’s go. I’m sure we can beat them.”  


* * *

 

Myrcy plopped into her usual booth at the Oyster Shack, this time surrounded by friends, however preoccupied they both seemed to be. Sansa checked her texts every three seconds, and Marg picked up the menu as her lips drew into their familiar smirk of disdain.

“I don’t think I should eat oysters! They’re an aphrodisiac, and I’m not getting any action ever again. It would be cruel to my religious lady rose.”

“What?” Sansa asked half-heartedly with one eye still on her screen.

“The depths of my conch.” Marg sighed. “The Tyrell Tongue Tunnel. I’d say bad pussy, but I’m no Dornish Snake.”

“Well…” Sansa shook her head and tsked.

“I’m _not_! Gods, Sansa, so rude. I can’t help that you’ve only been dickmatized by a limpy poet.” Somebody or other set a basket of crisps on the table, and Marg absentmindedly shoved several into her mouth. “Are these gluten-free?”

Myrcy leaned forward over the table to stare at Sansa, a feeling of glee and sinking despair dueling inside her relatively flat chest even though she’d spent that one year eating a lot of butter. “Sansa? Is this _true_??!?!??! You didn’t tell me!!!”

Sansa burst into tears. “I didn’t even tell Marg for like ages! Two or even three days! Plus, he’s her _brother_ you know, but you my darling are a precious nugget of molten innocence and should be protected at all costs!”

Myrcy stood up so quickly the table shook, and the crisps almost slid to the floor. “I am _not_ a nugget! Gods, people, I’m not a kid anymore! I can talk about…boning. And stuff.”

“You’re blushing as hard as Brienne, my lovely nugget!” Marg smirked harder. “Sit down and eat crisps.”

Myrcy sat, but she crossed her arms over her pancake boobs and huffed.

“Willas wasn’t even good,” Marg continued. “Right, Sansa?”

Sansa wailed. “I don’t _know_ , you know? How can I know if I don’t know?”

“Oh, you’d know. But he can learn, I suppose. I might have to force him into a seminar with Loras and Renly, though it’s not quite the same sans bad pussy, probably. Is it? Hmm…would Hot Uncle Jaime give lessons? He’s masterful and clearly very fertile.” Marg tapped a crisp against her lip and stared into the distance. “Besides, Myrcy, you haven’t even liked anyone since that boy who was in band, and you wouldn’t even talk to him.”

“Walder Florent,” Myrcy mumbled.

“Ew! His mom was a Frey then. Nobody likes them.” Sansa sniffed.

“Can I take your order?” said an accented voice from somewhere in the air. It was the waiter who’d arrived last week, but no way in the seven hells would Myrcy tell Marg or Sansa that she thought he was…appealing. That tousled black hair, built-in guyliner…there was a _twinge_ when she looked at him. So obviously she never did.

“Uh, sure, the usual for me. And two sauces. And bread. And that squid thing with that other sauce.” She cleared her throat. She did not look up.

Marg slapped her hand, then Sansa’s hand, then the table. “Sansa! She’s got an itch at last! _Look_!”

“What? Maybe like four oysters or whatever? Thanks.” Sansa rubbed her hand and glanced up, first at Myrcy’s face which she knew was flaming, then at the waiter. “Oh gods _wow_!”

“Shut up!” Myrcy shouted.

“I’d like a sampler platter, if you please, and I’ll just have to deal with the aphrodisiacness.” Marg did look up, but instead of grinning and scheming as Myrcy expected, which would _mortify_ her, Marg scowled.

She grabbed the poor waiter by the hem of his oystery tee shirt and pulled him close so he had to lean down. “Here boy, what is your name?”

The cute waiter raised one thick, black, but like...manicured man--brow, at Marg, the cut his eyes to her. Myrcy. Her. “Trystane.”

Ooooh his accent was cute...

“And you’re from Dorne?” Marg pressed.

“Yes, Sunspear.” He tried to stand upright, and Marg let him go. He looked at Myrcy again. “It’s very beautiful there. Like here, but warmer and with many kinds of fruits.”

Myrcy felt herself like Aunt Unicorn Brienne. Marg narrowed her eyes, then looked at Sansa who _also_ narrowed her (damp) eyes. They glanced at one another before turning to Myrcy.

“No,” they said simultaneously.

“No what?!?!” Myrcy shouted.

“No to the fruit boy. Just no.” Marg waved her hand in dismissal, and the smokin’ Dornish lad sauntered off with a glance over his shoulder. At her. Myrcy. Was the world ending or something?

“Darling Myrcy, you can do so much better than _that_! He’s like…from a boy band!” Sansa shook her head.

“I can’t _do_ better when I haven’t _done_ anything!” Myrcy leaned back until her head was cradled against the torn vinyl booth. She was going to die alone surrounded only by chicken spawn.

“Maybe it’s time to tell her?” Marg whispered to Sansa, but Myrcy could hear.

“Tell me what?!?!” She shouted.

“Stop shouting!” Sansa shouted. “Yes, tell her. Otherwise, her depression might overshadow my depression, and it’s my turn.”

“It’s always your turn for depression, Sansa.” Marg leaned over to Myrcy. “We weren’t sure about telling you at this very early stage, because it’s not even a _project_ yet, or really anything. But it _is_ the definite unavoidable future. You know? You have to just accept it. Like Sansa is going to have to accept that she will break up with Willas very soon over an incredibly stupid reason that shouldn’t exist, and then you and I will have to maneuver them back together at a reasonable and appropriate time. Do you see?”

“What?!?!” Sansa wailed.

Myrcy was quite startled, but she _did_ see. The part about Sansa was obvious, so Marg must be right about _her_ , too. She usually was. Myrcy nodded.

“Good. I thought so.” She slapped Sansa on the back. “So here’s the thing, Myrcy…you’re going to marry my brother Garlan.”

Myrcy felt numb, but somehow her body plastered itself against the booth as if she could moondoorwalk backward through a wall and out into the sea.

Marg waved her hand. “Oh don’t worry. Not like next week or next year or anything. In like…ten years? That sort of thing.”

“But, but…” Myrcy sputtered. “He’s… _older_ ? And…nobody’s ever _met_ him? And does he even _exist?_ ”

Marg laughed that silvery, tinkly laugh she had that mesmerized boys and made girls want to _be_ her. “Well, _I’ve_ met him! And yes, he’s older, but not like, that much.”

“I thought Willas was the oldest?” Sansa sniffled.

“I thought Loras was the oldest?” Myrcy mumbled, unable to speak above a low, desperate tone. “I thought Loras was the _only_ for like, ages.”

“Oh pish, most people have no idea who’s in our family, and the order gets fucked up all the time depending on who’s living with Grandmother. Garlan moved out early to hike across Essos.” Marg finished off the chips and started sexily licking crumbs off her fingers. She didn’t know any other way. “So Sansa is going to marry Willas after they break up and reunite once or five times, and you’re going to marry Garlan, and then we’ll all be sisters for real.”

“Blood doesn’t make you family,” Myrcy insisted. Brienne wasn’t related by blood, but she was basically her mother now, and far better than the one she’d known before.

“Of course not, but you have to be a Tyrell-adjacent to get the Dragonglass-level Tyrell Hotels perks card. Obviously.”

“Oh. Well that makes sense.” Myrcy furrowed her brow. “My grandfather would never allow me to marry a Tyrell. He might murder Garlan or something.”

Marg scowled. “Then I’d just ask Grandmother to murder your grandfather.”

“You can’t. Uncle Tyrion would get blamed. I’m pretty sure Grandfather keeps a video will where he says if he gets murdered, it was Tyrion. Then Joff.”

Marg leaned forward with a glint in her eye. “Grandmother would have to murder piggy Joff first, _then_ your grandfather, and we’d have to make sure Uncle Tyrion had an alibi the whole time.”

“Your oysters and sauces?” The Dornish cherub-faced angel waiter appeared. He said “sauces” like _sawwww-cez._ Hot. He looked at her and smiled with just one side of his mouth, sort of like... _hey girl hey_.

Myrcy sighed. His sleek mane was not for her fingers to run through. “Thank you.”

He smiled at her with all the sides of his mouth. Why wasn’t he smiling at Marg! She had really nice boobs!.

“Garlan Tyrell is fifty times more beautiful _and_ he’s got giant rock-climbing biceps!” Marg shouted.

The waiter…. _Trystane_ nodded his head, shrugged his shoulders, and left, and Myrcy would probably never see him again. “How do you know he’d even _like_ me? I’m not easy to like.”

Sansa started to cry again, reaching over to grip Myrcy’s hand as fat salty tears dropped onto her skin. “Darling nugget, you are worthy of all the things!”

“Anybody who doesn’t like you can go fuck a dead dragon’s spiky forehead. All the best people like you, so whatever. Brienne likes you. Take that.” Marg nodded as if it were all settled.

Myrcy tried to remember that pretty much everything was good, and really, it _was_ except for all the plans falling apart and having a random crush on a Dornish boy with pretty hair.

“Fine, fine, so I guess I’ll marry Garlan in ten years, but for now, we’re supposed to be making Uncle Jaime marry Aunt Brienne. It’s _not_ going to plan, people.” Myrcy wiped one single lurking tear away and dragged her other hand back from Sansa’s claw-grip.

Marg pulled a leather-covered executive notebook with a built-in pen sleeve from somewhere. She opened to a neatly-calligraphied list. “Alright. How are we doing on flowers?”

Sansa raised her hand.

“Yes, Sansa?” Marg called without breaking her gaze on the list.

“Bad.”

“I see. The dress?”

Myrcy cleared her throat. “I think I’ve got the design down, but there aren’t any materials around here.”

“I’ll have everything brought over by helicopter.” Marg moved on. “Let’s see the sketch.”

Myrcy found the crumpled sketch in her pocket and smoothed it out on the table. “See here, there’s a long capelet that drapes across the shoulders, and the rest is a sheath-like thing that will skim over the sand.”

Marg contemplated while Sansa pulled out her own notebook and began to copy Myrcy’s sketch which was quickly becoming obscured by oyster oil spots.

“It needs color,” Marg asserted.

“Oh yes, you just can’t see it here. Sansa, can you make the hem and the belt and neckline blue and the border of the cape red? Myrcy popped some fried squid into her mouth and leaned over to watch Sansa draw.

“Definitely. And maybe some sparkle…”

“What about instead of solid colors it’s blue and red sequins?” Marg poked her finger at the new sketch.

“Wow, that’s going to be incredible!” Myrcy breathed.

“I love the shape, Myrcy. You really made something that will look amazing on her.” Sansa finished the simple lines and nodded in satisfaction.

“Don’t cry on this one,” Marg warned.

“Already have.”

“Myrcy, give me your supply list, and we’ll get going. Don’t argue. How many sequins do you think you’ll need?”

Myrcy struggled to tear off a bite of squid, but it was _so_ worth it. “Maybe…like thirty thousand?”

“Goodness! How long would it take to sew them all on?!!” Marg downed a whole oyster without blinking.

“Well, like…a day? Probably.” Myrcy nodded to herself. She could be fast when needed.

“That’s not so bad!” Sansa choked on her own oyster.

“Now then,” Marg went on, “Lovely Uncle Selwyn has the septon in the ass barn under control. Love that guy! The septon not so much. He’s a bad kisser.” Marg ate three oysters in a row.

“You snogged the septon?” Sansa looked askance.

Marg shrugged. “Why not? Anyway, the last thing really is the beach decorations. They’ve got to be _amazing_.”

“Epic!” Sansa agreed.

“One true wedding. The wedding that was promised. The wedding that would mount the world,” Myrcy breathed.

“Ooh, I wanna mount something right now.” Marg crossed her legs.

“Stop with the oysters!” Sansa moved the plate away.

“We’d already decided on a floral archway courtesy of Tyrell Hotels, but not roses because Brienne hates roses. Lilies?” Myrcy pushed. They were running out of time!

“Yes lilies! Tons, everywhere. Like a sea of white lilies, and then little blue and red stuff or whatever. And glitter.” Sansa began a new sketch of the beach décor.

“Doves. Like in Baelor’s Square last year, but _more_.” Marg determined.

“Yes, doves! And something else. We need something even more magical, people.” Myrcy pressed her fingers against her temples to force more interesting thoughts to form.

Marg’s boobs planted themselves on the table as she leaned so far over, the table cut into her stomach. “ _Guys_!?!! What about unicorns??!!”

“They’re all _dead_!!!” Sansa wailed.

“No, I mean, like…white horses dressed like unicorns? Because Brienne is the most unicorn of all unicorns? I have decided, we need unicorns.” Marg immediately began texting.

“How in the world are we going to get white horses dressed as unicorns, and over here on Tarth, and in like, not that long?” Myrcy finished off the oysters as a service to Marg’s ladybits.

“Grandmother knows a horse trainer. Well, Grandmother’s CFO’s son is a horse trainer. Apparently he’s a dick, but we don’t need _him_ , we need his horses and some papier mâché unicorn horns on straps. I’ll send a cargo ship for the horses or something.”

“I don’t think Tarth is big enough to dock a cargo ship.” Myrcy looked out the window at the sea, with the coast of the Stormlands not that far away.

“Whatever. I’ll figure it out!”

“Okay, so we’ve got the dress and supplies happening, the lilies and small unknown flower species coming, the unicorns and the barn septon ready. I feel like we’re forgetting something?” Sansa took inventory from Marg’s list.

“Oh bollocks! Uncle Jaime’s suit!” Myrcy slapped the table.

“I’ll have one made by Grandmother’s tailor. He can rush it.” Marg continued to text.

Myrcy warned, “We don’t have his measurements.”

“Oh, I do.”

“What? How?” Sansa wailed.

“I took them with my eyes. Yes, it’s possible.”

 

* * *

 

From beneath the front window of the Oyster Shack, old panes propped open to let the salt air in, Tyrion crouched in the rocky, sandy shrubbery.

Next to him, Tysha was similarly folded, her hands covering her mouth as she struggled not to laugh out loud.

“Shh,” he warned, even though he was barely holding it together himself.

The noise from the girls’ table above them was so loud that he didn’t believe they would hear an elephant march by. Still best to be cautious, and leaning closer to Tysha to whisper in her ear meant he could accidently brush his lips against her cheek once or twice. “It’s worse than I thought.”

“So much worse!” she whispered back.

“I told you! That’s why we had to follow them.”

“And here I thought you just wanted to get naughty against that dick-shaped log!”

“Oh, I do. We _will_ , but you see how bad they are? _Bad_ .” He inhaled the scent of her hair, whatever it was. _Good_.

“They’re sweet. They love in weird ways, but they’re sweet,” she said.

“So you would think it _sweet_ to be subjected to a surprise wedding involving multi-colored sequins, doves, and costumed horses?”

“Fine, maybe not the sequins or various creatures, but it’s the thought that counts.” She grinned up at the general vicinity of schemers.

Tyrion swallowed, suddenly nervous but sensing an interesting opportunity. “It’s the trappings you object to, not the surprise wedding part?”

She still smiled, but looked out at the water and not at him. She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a very fancy person, Mr. Gold-Smallclothes.”

This was it, Tyrion decided. It would happen here, on Tarth. He would not leave Tarth without proposing to Tysha, and he really thought she would actually say yes. If he let too much time slip by, preoccupied by the various levels on insanity that infected all his family, he might overthink it. He might find ten thousand reasons why he wasn’t good enough for such an incredible woman like Tysha. He might sabotage everything. So he had to do it _now_ . Jaime had told him to ignore his own instincts if his feelings were real, and they _were_.

“Marry me,” he said. Damn, he was usually much better with words.

Tysha toppled from her awkward crouch and landed in the sand-rock-dirt. “What??!?!”

At least they were at eye level now. “I’m serious. Very.”

She gaped for a moment before breaking down in a cackling laugh that was sure to travel into the Oyster Shack.

She grabbed his wrist and dragged him closer, half-whispering between laughs, “So you’ve asked me to marry you as we sit behind a shrub while eavesdropping on your niece, after darting over to this remote island because your nephew’s lizard was dying of anxiety and there was no one to watch the chickens?”

“Um…yes?” He began to laugh, too. Yes, this was going to work. He knew it was going to work, and everything would be alright.

“That’s my line. Fine then, but I don’t want fancy _anything_ , and we can’t live in a mansion, and can we not have any animals at the ceremony? And I want a ring from the tourist shop that costs less than ten silver lions. No argument.”

“How did I pick such a cheap bride? It’s so unlike me.” He kissed her smack on the lips, and it lasted a little while. He drew back. “You’re really saying yes?”

She placed her palms over his cheeks and smiled a very sappy smile. “Yes. I will marry you. Let’s go get my cheap ring.”

“Uncle Tyrion? Oh my gods, why are snogging in the bushes?!?!?”

 

* * *

 

Jaime was extremely familiar with Brienne’s gait, Brienne’s running speed, Brienne’s steps per mile…Brienne’s everything, essentially. But her ability to run through a forest and leap over roots and fallen logs like some wild gazelle made him _feel_ things. Deep in the chambers of his heart, and also places further south. Not Dorne.

They made it to the waterfall in what felt like the blink of an eye. He truly believed that he was only a minute or so behind her because of the unfamiliar terrain _, not_ because he was maybe getting a slightly bum knee.

Brienne was catching her breath as she stood at the edge of a small clearing, mostly occupied by a huge rock formation with a lovely little waterfall tumbling from a split into the stone. There was a small pool at the foot that must drain into an underground stream.

Arya Stark was not in sight. They seemed to be very alone.

Maybe it was the run, maybe the glances she kept giving him at the house. Maybe it was the vision of her as a gazelle and he as a predatory lion. Whatever it _was_ , he embraced it and pounced on her, wrapping his arms around her and turning her until he could snog the living daylights from her plush lips. She didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Ew!” shouted a voice. The voice of Arya Stark, filtering down from the vengeful heavens.

“Seven fucking hells.” He buried his face in the crook of Brienne’s neck.

“Agreed.” She sighed, then gently gripped his arms to move him away. She looked up at the treetops. “Arya, where are you?”

“Arya, where are-ya?” He grinned stupidly at his wife. If he couldn’t strip her naked, he could watch her roll her eyes at his dumb jokes.

She did. “Really, Jaime, spend a long time thinking of that one?”

“Seconds even.”

“Up here.” Arya’s voice floated down again. “I’m…stuck.”

Brienne’s gaze settled on one particular tree, and she nodded to herself. “Arya, you have to cross over to the next tree. Use that thick branch and swing yourself, then there’s an easy climb down. I did this all the time when I was girl.”

Jaime pictured her as a child, before people got so mean to her. She would have scampered freely over the rocks and sung to the birds in the trees. Splashed in the waterfall and poked at bugs. He wanted that for their children, this more innocent world away from the city. Maybe she would want that, too.

He could hear tree branches groaning and foliage swishing, then Arya dropped down not far away. She looked hilariously terrifying, covered in green grease with two extra eyes clumsily painted on her forehead.

“What a cool way to get down! I should’ve seen that,” she said, brushing debris off her filthy clothes.

“You have to know the land, Arya.” Brienne moved over to the girl and took inventory of her limbs. “Are you okay?”

“Oh sure. I was just trying to get cell reception, ‘cause Gendry was texting me.”

Jaime sighed. Even forest waterfalls had to wait for the all-important text.

“He’s rowing over soon,” Arya said casually before going to admire herself in the pool’s shallow water.

Brienne looked at him, then back at Arya. “What?”

Arya shrugged. “Yeah, he’s got rich now. Remember how he made horseshoes for Rickon so we could find him? He sold the idea to Loras and Renly for some fashion thing, and he bought a boat. He’s coming over to see me. That’s kinda nice, but I hope he’s not a dumbass and brings flowers or some shit.”

“Language, Arya!”

“Sorry, Aunt Brienne.”

“Wait,” Jaime stepped closer and ran his fingers through his hair. Why did _everything_ have to be so weird? “Gendry is rowing himself to Tarth?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t just row to Tarth,” Jaime insisted.

Arya scowled at him. “Gendry can row anywhere! He can row all around the whole world!”

“I’m sure he can, but he doesn’t know these waters. They can be dangerous, Arya. Please tell him not to row out here. We’ll pick him up on shore and tow his boat over, okay?” Brienne’s voice was terribly gentle.

“Ugh, fine! I don’t want him to drown or whatever. There’s weird squid down there.”

“Exactly.” Brienne nodded in satisfaction at her success. “When is he arriving?”

“Not sure yet. That’s why I was trying to text, duh.”

“I see. Um, Arya, were you in the tree texting the whole time you were here? It’s just…there are some slippery rocks by the falls, and you should know about them if you haven’t learned the hard way.” Brienne began to blush again.

Which made Jaime remember his not-long-past urges, which made him recall the clues of her scavenger hunt, which made him _very_ uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I was just in the trees. I won’t slip though! I can water dance.” The girl picked up a scroungy stick and began to twirl and lunge at the edge of the pool.

In less than a minute, she toppled right in and got soaking wet, the hideous paint on her face sliding off. “Oh well!” she shouted. “I’ll practice.”

He saw Brienne smile as if she couldn’t help it. She toed off her shoes and turned toward him, nodding at his feet. He copied her, and she grabbed his hand, leading him to the pool and right into the water, which for them, was only calf-deep. It was _freezing_. A nice distraction from other currently-impossible activities.

Arya tried to maneuver through the water while Brienne moved them toward the falls. Mist soon became droplets and she stretched her free arm straight through the sheet of water, turning back with two wooden swords grasped in her hand.

She stared at them with a sheepish smile. “These were my practice swords. Toys really, and I always hid them here. I only ever used this longer one, bashing away at the rocks and imaginary dragons.”

She dropped his hand and took the slightly smaller sword, handing it to him. He saw a small plastic bag tied to the hilt. He knew her fourth clue would be inside.

He took it, and they moved back to solid ground where they sat on the soft bank. She helped him dig the clue envelope from the bag, but he opened it himself.  


_When I was a girl, I dreamed of watching my match sail in from another world._

_The place where I dreamed is between the clouds and the ground, atop the rest of my youth._

_Find where I conceal myself, and your next clue._   


Jaime furrowed his brow. It was the most obvious yet, but also the _least_ provocative. Why was she so embarrassed at the chance of Arya finding it?

It was like she could read his mind. She wouldn’t look at him, and she whispered, “Two things. You think anyone who found that _wouldn’t_ try to find more clues? They’re for your eyes only.”

“I very much agree.” He leered at her like a creepy mockingbird.

She cleared her throat. “And…I was….getting impatient so I wrote you another note on the back.”

Her tone was so low he could hardly hear. He flipped the clue card to see, instead of her usual careful handwriting, a hastily scrawled addition in pencil so faint it was nearly unreadable. He knew she would want to erase it later, but he would protect it with his life.

Maybe not that serious, but really, she _was_ becoming more Lannister than he’d ever thought possible.

 _I put a sleeping bag in the clue spot. In case you want to…_   


He peered at her with one brow raised. “I _always_ want to. As you well know.”

“What do you want to do?” Arya asked, breathless from twirling around.

“Nothing!” “Have fun.” He and Brienne spoke at the same time.

“Duh, who doesn’t?” Arya slipped to her knees in the water, but got right back up.

“Yes, Brienne. Who _doesn’t_?” He bit his lower lip.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t just fling Brienne over his shoulder and drag her off to the promised land, for a great thrashing filled the forest. Stomping feet and singing blasted into the clearing.

“When I say chicken, you say squawk! Chicken!”

“Squawk!”

“Chicken!”

“Squawk!”

Selwyn’s booming voice led the bizarre chorus, enthusiastically answered by Tommen, Ser Pounce’s mewls, and a nearly-silent Willas Tyrell.

For some inexplicable, gut reason, Jaime was just really tired of Willas Tyrell. “I thought you were retiring to write love ballads to crabs, Willas?”

“I had a sudden epiphany,” Willas mumbled, scratching at his red-cheeks.

“He had a sudden case of hives!” Selwyn offered, loudly. “He can’t eat that many eggs, apparently. Right after you two crazy young gulls flew away, he got these real nasty hives all over.”

“It could be cat scratch fever,” Willas insisted, his swollen lips making it hard to decipher.

Selwyn rolled his large eyes and placed a hand on top of Willas’ head. “It’s not cat scratch fever. I checked you for that. Made sure your throat wasn’t swelling up, either, boy. You’ve got egg hives. And you know what cures hives and just about everything?”

Brienne sighed but smiled. “Forest pollen, sea air, and Tarth grape-berry syrup.”

“Exactly! Gave him a shot or two of the good stuff, and out here we are.” Selwyn sat down on a large rock by the pool’s edge.

Willas made a raspberry sound with his swollen lips, then giggled before reaching down to scratch his ankle before falling into Selwyn, who righted him like a toy ship.

“He looks sort of…delirious?” Jaime squinted at Willas, his gaunt face made more hollow than usual by the early dusk light.

“He’s drunk,” Brienne leaned close and whispered. “Dad gives the _really_ spiked stuff to adults.”

“This island is so weird. I love it.” Jaime chuckled to himself.

“Me, too.”

“I don’t want to share my musical gifps wif the unappreshiative public anymore!” Willas lisped through his puffy lips.

“No one cares!” Arya replied.

Jaime watched Tommen approach the pool, but Ser Pounce began to thrash in his Baby Tormund.

“He is out of sorts because of Gatehouse Ami.” The boy looked over at Jaime with such a resigned expression in his eyes. “I really think I am going to have to breed them. I do not believe that Ser Pounce will be satisfied any longer without kittens.”

And by Ser Pounce, Tommen clearly meant _Tommen_.

“We knew this would happen,” Brienne whispered again.

“If we keep collecting animals like this, we’re going to have to move here and use the barn.” Jaime was only half-kidding.

“Shansha’s lyricsh are beautifully pashtoral and layered, yet they are taken for banal Fleabottom shpoken-word!” Willas wailed.

“There once was a dickhead named Willas—” Arya started.

“Language, Arya!” Brienne demanded, then turned back to Jaime. “Dad certainly wouldn’t mind. About Tarth.”

Their eyes met, and for one silent moment, the tantalizing yet frightening concept of country living became a genuine prospect. Still, there wasn’t much medical care or gluten-free dietary options.

“How about a summer place here? Maybe the one we’re staying in?” Jaime suggested.

“It’s not even for sale.” Brienne sighed. “I do love it, though. Right next to Dad, and plenty of space.”

“Lannisters have ways.” He waggled his brows. “Speaking of—”

“Hey, I’m not fighting you, Tiny Shtark! Shansha shays not to encourage the idiocy of her shiblings.” Willas cried out as Arya splashed him.

“Here you, lad, sit yourself by that tree and breathe in the pollen,” Selwyn commanded to Willas, who surprisingly obeyed without grumbling. “Young girl, use the resistance of the water to improve your stance.”

“But how am I supposed to get better at water dancing when nobody will _ever_ fight me!” Arya screeched.

Brienne gathered the two wooden swords and rose to her feet. “I can’t help you with water dancing, but a good old-fashioned spar builds skill just as well.” She tossed the smaller sword to Arya who succeeded in catching it by the hilt.

Jaime watched as Brienne feigned a “serious” fight with Arya. They were laughing and getting soaked as they hopped in and out of the water, as was Jaime when they ventured too close. Selwyn talked chickens and cat breeding with Tom. It was peaceful and perfect in the clearing.

“There!” Willas shouted to the heavens. “I have shent a text that will sheal our fate as a folk duo! Gigsh have only sherved to harm our beautiful bonded relationship, thus we must deny ambition in favor of personal gain.”

“No one cares, Willas!” said everyone.

 


	7. In Which There is a Lengthy Texting, an Existential Submersion, and a Crabby Revelation

 

“But what does it  _ mean _ ?!?!?!!?” Sansa wailed.

“It’s the stupid reason for breaking up before getting back together, I’m telling you!” Marg shouted.

“It is sort of obvious, Sansa,” Myrcy offered.

“You don’t understand! I’m supposed to fake break up with  _ him _ ! I can’t get fake or real  _ dumped _ !” Sansa crumpled to the chilly sand.

Myrcy and Marg stopped their stroll on the beach and rolled their eyes at each other.

“I’m going to read it again! Maybe something’s changed!” Sansa flopped onto to her back and stared at her glaring phone and the stars beyond.

“Please don’t.” Marg kicked Sansa’s foot.

“I will!  _ Sansa my love, I cannot maintain this pretense that our duo is soul-consuming any longer. We must proceed as deeply-layered, differentiated persons apart from this endeavor. I do hope you are not cripplingly, no pun intended, disappointed, but I believe it to be for the best and look forward to future couplings. _ ”

“I still don’t understand how that’s a  _ text _ !” Myrcy wondered.

“It’s a treatise, because Willas.” Marg sank down next to Sansa. “Darling, this is temporary, I promise, because I will amputate Willy’s good leg if he doesn’t come to his senses in no more than four days. For now, let’s just focus on the epic wedding and the unicorns, okay? I’ve already got Grandmother’s shipping chief on my side! All the things we need will be on the next plane to Storm’s End, and then some boat or other will pick up our crate from the Tyrell Ocean Gull Gardens hotel. Easy as Frey pie!”

“Is the airport here closed again?” Myrcy asked, already knowing it was likely since it happened all the time. 

“Yes! So annoying, though I’m not sure a big enough plane could land here anyway…” Marg returned to her phone for more research. 

“I thought Willas and I would have our first soul-deep actually meaningful folk duo performance at the wedding for the first dance of epic married  _ love _ !” Sansa wept loudly and violently. “And what about the  _ unicorns _ !”

Marg frowned. “Haven’t got that quite worked out start to finish, but the horse trainer is double checking the exorbitant bank transfer I sent from the Oyster Shack, and he’s supposed to drive six pure white horses from King’s Landing to Storm’s End. He’s refused to fly them in any manner because of  _ sedation _ or something. Ugh. I just have to get them all over  _ here _ from Storms End, so still plenty of time really.”

Myrcy felt lost. In the face of unrelatable relationship despair and extreme business organization, her own sad skill set paled. But she would be a terrible friend if she mocked Sansa’s fake/real pain or got jealous of Marg’s stellar success. She pushed it all aside and bent down to give Sansa a hand. “Come on, let’s head back, and I’ll make you dairy-free sugar-free hemp-milk cocoa. We can use the bedsheets to make a mock-up of Brienne’s dress!”

“That’s a fab idea!” Marg also lent a hand, and between them, they hauled Sansa to her feet.

“I don’t want to be a single woman again! I want to get married and have babies who are princes and princesses of folk music and wood burning!” Sansa wailed and wept the whole way home.

 

* * *

 

Jaime lurked in the shadows at the side of the rental house, which he had definitely decided to buy as soon as possible even though it might have to be expanded at some point. The moon was almost full. Someone, probably Margaery, would surely see him creeping around the grass until he could get over to Tarth manor.

Selwyn had successfully hauled a sloshed and less hive-y Willas Tyrell off to sleep. Brienne was making sure that Tommen had his night apple snack and that Ser Pounce and Briann were safely enclosed where neither could get into terrible trouble. The chickens were safely ensconced in the barn with the miniature donkeys. Myrcy and Margaery had barged into the house not long before, practically carrying an emotionally unstable Sansa Stark whose pale limbs dragged along the ground as if half-dead. They were camped out in Myrcy’s room, and Jaime suspected Marg had brought gin.

He had no idea where his brother was, or Tysha for that matter, but since neither had been seen since the Oyster Shack according to Myrcy’s hasty story of catching them snogging in the bushes. He wasn’t too worried about being discovered by them.

Unless they had accidentally found the clue spot and were using the sleeping bag.  _ Brienne’s sleeping bag _ . Where he was supposed to discover untold pleasures with his wife, under the stars. He would have to kill Tyrion, or bribe him with Margaery’s liquor. Whichever was faster.

He had figured out where to go not long after reading the clue. She wouldn’t put a sleeping bag anywhere that could be seen by  _ anyone _ for any reason, which seriously limited the scope of the search, because she also would never allow him to wander in dark, unfamiliar woods at night. She was very overprotective even when it wasn’t at all necessary.

The spot would be secure and unseen, but nearby, which led him to the “rest of her youth” part, which led him to thoughts of her bedroom in the manor. He assumed confidently that there was a place on the manor roof where she had gone to stargaze. He had to get to the top floor without being seen, and then… _ then _ …his body thrummed just from the thought.

He was dressed all in black like a dumbass burglar. The last thing he needed was for Tommen or the girls to see a figure in light clothes darting across the lawn. They’d assume he was a ghost or a burglar. Or burglar ghost knowing them. Luckily, he’d managed to change while everyone else was busy with pets and crying, and now he waited for the first opportunity to sneak over undetected.

The alternating laughter and weeping throughout the entire house began to die down. A cloud floated between the moon and the beach, and he had his chance.

He burst into a sprint, and he made it just past Selwyn’s kitchen window before face-planting right into the damp grass. A garden hose flopped by his foot which had caught in the loop.

The kitchen door cracked open.

“Who goes there? A ghost? A burglar?” Selwyn shouted, then full-belly laughed.

Jaime groaned as he picked himself up. “Just me,” he almost whispered, then added hastily, “It’s a surprise for Brienne. I wanted to…find something. From her old room.”

Selwyn’s version of a whisper was still a foghorn, but Jaime would take what he could get. “I love surprises! Brienne doesn’t, but I don’t think she’ll care much since your heart is always in the right place.” Selwyn stepped out of the kitchen and brushed some dirt from Jaime’s shoulder. “Come right in. You can sneak up the back stairs. Your brother and that fine little lady are all holed up in the Blue-Bellied Bass room, so they won’t notice a thing!”

“Thank you, Selwyn.” Jaime moved into the kitchen, but glanced back at his unflappable father-in-law. “How do you always just go along with whatever craziness unfolds in front of you? You never question it.”

Selwyn closed the kitchen door behind him, shrugging his bulky shoulders. His blue eyes looked very like Brienne’s, though a little darker. “I learned long ago what’s really important. My girl and I, we lost a lot. You know that. It doesn’t really matter what people are up to if you love them.”

Jaime flashed on the night he lost his hand while defending Tyrion, and had thought he was going to die. He thought of the much-more-stupid time last year when he’d been convinced that Brienne had been in a fiery car crash and he’d never see her again. He nodded slowly. “How very true.”

Selwyn patted his shoulder again, even though there was no dirt. “I’m thinking you’d better get yourself upstairs so I can switch the lights off and pretend the house is shut down, or else Brienne’ll never have the gumption to follow you over here.”

Jaime couldn’t stifle a laugh, even though it was too loud. “You’re too sly for your own good, Selwyn Tarth.”

And Selwyn Tarth winked. “You have no idea the things I learn.”

“I really don’t want to know!” Jaime grinned and turned to climb the back stairs that led up from the kitchen. He was halfway up when the lights snapped off as Selwyn hummed his way around the rest of the ground floor.

He made his way to the top floor, empty since there weren’t enough guests to use the rooms there. Brienne had shown him her childhood room not long after they’d arrived on Tarth. It had been properly broken in even though the bed frame was too squeaky and they’d wound up on the floor.

There had to be a door to the roof nearby. He tried a few, finding mostly dusty old rooms used for storage, or forgotten closets. One door finally swung open to reveal a narrow set of steps with another door at the top. The crisp sea air flooded in when he finally found his destination. There was a small square area of the roof that seemed like a little courtyard, surrounded by half-walls and chimneys. No one from the ground outside would be able to see him. With the door closed, it was a private little world under sparkling constellations he could actually see so far from the city lights.

There was a rolled-up sleeping bag propped against a chimney, a clue envelope set on the top. The air was quite warm, and Jaime was far warmer as he looked at it. He placed the envelope in his pocket, thinking it was probably too dark to read, and he wanted to save it. Spread it all out longer, savor this game she had made for him.

It was hard to maneuver with one hand, but he managed to methodically unfurl and unzip the puffy thing, and lay it out in the space. His heart was beating faster than a teenager’s about to lose his virginity at westerball camp.

He sat down and watched a shooting star, waiting for any sign that she would appear. Even so, the squeak on the stair made him jump, and he snapped around to watch the door swing open, sticking a little from the corner of the sleeping bag.

She was dressed all in black, too, out of breath as if she’d run, and blonde hair silver in the moonlight. She grinned at him and whispered, “You went the burglar route, too, I see.”

He tried to return her smile, but he was too tightly wound. “Children and animals everywhere. It’s insane that we have to play dress up and sneak around just to have sex.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Come now, Jaime, we’ve only played dress up this time.”

He waited until she turned red, which he could see even in the low light. “You come now. Close the door and come here.”

She closed the door but leaned against it. Her breathing was rapid, her pupils blown wide. She bit her bottom lip. “You want me? Come and get me.”

So he did.

 

* * *

 

Margaery Tyrell was  _ so _ jealous. She could really hardly control her sexual rage.

“Marg,  _ please _ get away from the window!” Myrcy begged for the tenth time. “I mean, you’re starting to get  _ creepy _ .”

“I am  _ not _ creepy! I am  _ horny _ ! There is  _ such _ a difference.” Marg continued to stare through the binoculars she’d found hanging from the bannister. Apparently, they were Tommen’s bird and whale watching apparatus. He wouldn’t miss them  _ this  _ early. It was only like nine in the morning.

The septa’s collar itched like a fucker. She tugged on it, so close to ripping it off and burning it for the Faceless Squid or whatever. This religion thing was not going well, but what other choice did she have when there were no other Hot Uncle Jaime’s in the entire world? She could settle for no less. Not ever.

She sighed. Myrcy was right. She needed to stop watching. Now. Right…about…now. In five minutes.

But he was  _ so _ hot!

What little she could see of him, anyway. There was only a rare glimpse of a naked back or some random arms between those two chimneys, but it was  _ enough _ . Or not nearly, but enough to know what they were up to over on the roof of Tarth manor. If Marg didn’t already know that Brienne was pregnant, she would think she was catching glimpses of the epic tall-awkward-baby conception.

It was just too much. She was an empty, meaningless shell of a woman. What would a septa do when confronted with unmatchable fuckhot love?

Her phone buzzed. It was yet another text. Soooo many texts when attempting flawless business transactions!

_ Care to inform me why you’ve commandeered a jet to take a mysterious supply crate to Storm’s End, the left armpit of Westeros? Hmm? At least you could have conserved fuel with the chopper. _

Grandmother.

It was just so hard to explain projects to the elderly.  _ We are serving the community of the incredible isle of Tarth by promoting word-of-mouth historical events to take place on the undiscovered sparkling beach. And the tiny Tarth airport is shut down because of potholes or something.  _ So annoying to have to type out full words in full sentences, but Grandmother had “standards.”

Marg waited the expected twenty seconds. She swore Grandmother counted them.

_ Undiscovered? Hmm. What’s in the crate? _

Marg smirked to herself. Grandmother had not mentioned the incoming white horses yet. She could be withholding that as leverage for something else.  _ Supplies for said historical events. Nothing weird. _

Twenty seconds. Exactly.  _ I have sent my own surprise. Did you think I would allow you to use company assets for personal hobby transport? I think not. You have much to learn about hiding your tracks, girl. I will remain in contact. _

Marg felt the corners of her eyes tighten like tiny goblin fists.  _ Are you angry with me? _

Seventeen…eighteen…nineteen… _ Of course not. I’m unimpressed, which is worse but less personal. I should bill you for one hour of consultation and all the time you’ve now wasted by jetting from Asshai and leaving your seminars. Find something to do that involves a bloodline other than Lannister or Stark. _

Marg nodded to herself. Grandmother had not mentioned Tarth.

_ I will. And I will write a full report of the historical events for practice. _

Nineteen… _ I would advise you to refrain from beginning a sentence with a conjunction, but it would make me sound like that ass-moron Stannis Baratheon. Good day, Margaery, and do watch your hemlines on that island. You’ve got enough tabloid photos out there as it stands. _

_ Good day, Grandmother. Luvssssss!!!! Xoxoxoox. _

Grandmother did not reply. Marg knew she was the favorite, and really, Grandmother  _ did _ shower her with affection in person, and several dozen charge accounts.

Now all she had to do was figure out how to get that supply crate over to Tarth, and also the six white horses hopefully arriving by evening. She needed some clarity. Sansa had been wailing the entire night over her stupid fake-breakup, and Willas wasn’t replying to any texts, and they didn’t even know if he was lost in the woods or dead or anything.

She glanced over at the prostrate Sansa, eyes so red and puffy they looked just like the crabs’ on the beach. Myrcy met her gaze as she stroked Sansa’s hair, and grimaced.

Sansa cried harder as she caught a glimpse of Marg. “Oh gooooddddssss! Your face looks like Willas’ face! I will never escape this pain!”

Marg rolled her eyes. “I’m his sister, so duh.”

Myrcy shook her head to one side in that weird thing that was supposed to signal secret side conversations, but it just looked like she was getting water out of her ear. “Marg…maybe you want to run into town for…tampons? Or smoothies?” She pointed at Marg’s face then at Sansa.

The  _ pain _ .

Marg sighed. “Does anyone  _ need _ tampons or smoothies?”

“Nooo! I need  _ lovveeeee _ !” Sansa wailed.

“Well, neither do I. Tampons or smoothies I mean, but—” Myrcy began.

“Why don’t I make some calls from the beach? I should work on my tan anyway.” Time to put these poor girls out of their misery. Sometimes, Marg was just too much  _ woman _ for them. Or for boys. Or men. Or septons. It was extremely unfair but to be expected given the spectacular appearance of her boobs.

She winked at Myrcy and grabbed a beach tote, also taking the binoculars even though naked Hot Uncle Jaime had not made another appearance. She didn’t really want to be alone, but it was best for Sansa to avoid any Tyrell genetics for a short while. Maybe somebody would be down on the beach.

They were not. It was completely deserted, just her and the sea that had nearly killed her because of her collar of spiritual celibacy. Or something. She was surprised to feel just a little bit of fear about the water. She would have to conquer that immediately, or it would take root like a skunkweed at the base of rosebush. Was that a thing? The Tyrells hadn’t actually gardened since, well, before the Age of Heroes, or when Grandmother was a teenager. Whichever..

She had grabbed Myrcy’s beach tote instead of her own. Myrcy’s bikini was going to be way too small, but she wasn’t wearing underwear, and she couldn’t very well swim naked considering how Tommen might see her. Or Grandfather Selwyn which somehow seemed worse. Or  _ Willas _ . Ew.

That weird dick-shaped log had enough space behind  it to awkwardly change, so she managed it quickly. Myrcy’s bikini felt like a boob bandage, and the bottoms were already flossing her butt. She shimmied awkwardly into the water.

Tarth really was super beautiful. The water was so clear that she could dive a little and still see, and there were cool turtles the color of Hot Uncle Jaime’s eyes. She kind of choked and had to surface, sputtering as the hot sun hit her face.

She might actually be a tiny bit in love with him! What a horrible revelation. She’d thought she’d just wanted to bone the daylights out of him because he was  _ so _ hot and perfect, and that  _ jawline _ ! But he was meant for Precious Unicorn Brienne Tarth, of Tarth island where the water wasn’t even as pretty as her eyes.

She, Margaery Tyrell, was  _ not _ Hot Uncle Jaime’s soulmate. He had never even  _ wanted _ her! That was weird. Not that she would do it, because obviously she would never betray Brienne like that. She  _ loved _ Brienne, totes. Brienne deserved Hot Uncle Jaime for real. She deserved how he looked at her, like he wanted to eat her for every meal and also dessert.

Because she, Marg, was just such a sexual being, she  _ knew _ when Brienne’s blush was because she was just  _ Brienne _ or because they’d been boning. Which was a lot. She’d learned the signs and didn’t think anyone else actually had. They all seemed pretty oblivious about the constant boning, when Hot Uncle Jaime sometimes couldn’t walk quite right because of his aging right knee.

And Brienne was  _ pregnant! _ She hadn’t had much time to really think about that, and how all their dreams were really coming true. Except hers. Marg’s. Her.

A few little tears trickled down her cheeks because of maybe possibly being in love with the most forbidden option of a man ever, but maybe she was just  _ really _ horny and needed to stop dieting.

She heard voices from the direction of the beach and twisted around to see who might be there. It took her a minute, but it wasn’t even the beach, it was the Tarth dock where Grandfather Selwyn’s sailboat was moored. She squinted at it. It wasn’t the biggest. Tiny actually, but still a sailboat big enough for like six people or something. Big enough for a supply crate? Definitely not six white horses, but that was another problem to solve. She began to swim toward the dock.

Grandfather Selwyn unfurled the sails and got stuff ready. A dark-haired short person appeared…Arya, yes. And she also recognized Tommen. He was holding Ser Pounce like a suitcase, because the poor cat wore a life jacket with handles on the back. Ser Pounce hissed at something. The beast was just as horny as she was.

She wasn’t going to make the dock before the boat left. She treaded water and waved both hands. “Hey! People! Can I come, too?!?!”

Grandfather Selwyn squinted out at the water, then looked stunned. Arya snarled and threw a what looked like sandwich at her. It fell way short.

Tommen jumped a foot, and Marg felt bad. Ser Pounce screeched and clawed at his lifejacket, while Tom dropped something he’d been holding in the other hand.

“Noooo! Br—”

Marg couldn’t hear more. The boat lurched and sent a wave toward her, and she sputtered as she sank a few feet. Every time she broke the surface, there were more waves! Was she caught in a tidepool? What was a tidepool? The boat seemed to be moving in weird ways, and people were shouting from the deck. Was she about to be sucked down into a watery vortex of death?

Something tickled her side. Was it one of those creepy-ass squid out here? She spun but saw nothing. She sank down more and looked up at the sunlight filtering into the sapphire water.

Such beauty…a shadow passed over her, blocking the sun. It was a massive great beast up from the depths of the sea.

She screamed and accidentally swallowed water. Twisting and trying not to choke, she spun and saw a brilliant green inhuman eye staring at her.

She felt hypnotized! She was dying! The gods had come to claim her for escaping the helicopter incident!

Oh gods, it was the Drowned God! It had to be. A beasty weird eyeball staring at her, and then she couldn’t hold her breath anymore, and was still choking or whatever, and for some reason, she reached out and grabbed the nearest thing which was the eyeball beast.

She fought it and wouldn’t let go, its slithery hide sticking against her skin, and arms tangling in her hair. If she fought the Drowned God and won, would she be immortal then?  _ How cool _ . As long as she didn’t like, age forever. She’d rather die than have saggy boobs.

Huge arms plunged down into the water and grabbed her  _ and _ the Drowned God. She was hauled up into the sunlight still entwined with…Briann the Lizard.

_ Briann. The fucking. Lizard _ .

“Fuck you, Briann the Lizard!” She screeched, scrambling to disentangle herself from the slimy, mewling, green-eyed weirdo.

It bleated like a sheep and threw itself at Tommen. She leaned over to choke up all that gross water, but the boat lurched again. She slammed into the rail.

“Now there, girl, careful. Second close call you’ve had! I’d maybe stay on the beach.” 

Grandfather Selwyn’s calm voice seemed to help her focus a little.

“I think…cough…you’re right.”

“What a dumbass,” Arya mumbled.

“You saved Briann!” Tommen shouted, and threw himself at her.

She patted his head awkwardly. He stepped back fast, like he’d seen a ghost, and then he wouldn’t look at her anymore.

Grandfather Selwyn handed her a folded white sail. “You’re not wearing enough for this temperature. Sailing can be chilly. Not to mention how inappropriate this here situation is, what with you barely covered by a gum wrapper and all. I’m too old for this.” He shook his head and also wouldn’t look at her.

Arya scowled at her. “We’re going to get Gendry, and if you’re this naked when we get there, I’m throwing you overboard. You had him and you lost him and he didn’t want you, and I’m not having him get lured away by a gross naked harpy!”

Now Arya she did  _ not _ have to protect like a unicorn. “If I were gross you wouldn’t feel threatened!”

“I am  _ not threatened _ !” Arya stomped her foot.

“Here, here, girls, none of this.” Grandfather Selwyn shook his head and stared out to sea. “Tom, you’d better tie the pets down below.”

“Yes, I had better, but if we sink, someone has to rescue them again. I am not a good swimmer.” He carried his beloved creatures down the short stairs into the tiny cabin, their screeching and bleating almost louder than the wind in the sails.

Marg’s head was almost clear, and she recalled her original goal. She approached Selwyn, hips not even swaying one tiny bit as she wrapped the sailcloth around her like a goddess tunic. “Do you think we could pick up a crate that’s waiting for me in Storm’s End?” She leaned closer so she could whisper, but not in a sexy way. “It’s wedding stuff.”

Grandfather Selwyn’s eyes lit up, and he grinned. “Well sure thing if that’s the case.”

Marg grinned back and found a seat on the starboard bench. Now for the six white horses…

 

* * *

 

“Thirty-seven texts,” Jaime announced.

“That’s even more than usual for a weekday morning. Is anyone bleeding?” Brienne stretched, and her limbs easily reached the walls of their glorious private roof paradise.

He swallowed. “Um, don’t think so or we’d hear shouting.”

“What do the texts say? I left my phone over at our place.” Her tone didn’t really convey genuine interest in the text contents.

He understood completely. If no one were injured, missing, or enmeshed in some other kind of emergency, it was beautiful to pretend that all they had to think about was each other. Better get the basics over with so he could get back to far,  _ far _ more interesting activities.

He scrolled through his many open conversations. “Three from Myrcy…Willas Tyrell seems to have accidentally broken up with Sansa who is in despair. We are forbidden from disrupting the pain, but she wants to know if someone could bring chowder, because they’ve eaten all the ice cream and soup is more comforting than cereal.”

“Tell her to call the Oyster Shack and ask for Tarthsley Tarth in the back. He’ll deliver if she says Dad wants it.”

“Someone here is name  _ Tarthsley Tarth _ ? Really? That’s terrible. Sounds like Parsley.”

Brienne gently smacked him on the stomach, but her hand remained, very distractingly. “He was born during the trend of making every name end is  _ sley _ . You told me Joffrey was going to be Lannsley if he’d been a girl.”

He rolled his head over to look at her, smirking. “What would you have been? Briennsley? Hmm, doesn’t suit.”

“Thankfully, I was too old for that. Jaimsley.” She almost giggled.  _ Giggled _ .

“I hate it. It sounds like a deposed king.”

She turned onto her side to face him, a glowing light in her eyes as she smiled. “What kind of name do you like, then?”

He bit his lip. In thought, and because he knew she’d stare at it. She always did. “I don’t know. Something old-fashioned, but not uppity. Nothing beginning in  _ Ty _ . You?”

Then she wouldn’t look at him, staring instead at the cloudless sky. “Something sturdy.”

“Sturdy?” He laughed. “Like a tree trunk?”

“Yes, obviously like a tree trunk.” Finally, she looked back with a straight face. “Trunksley. It’s my favorite name of all names.”

He stole a not-so-quick kiss. “Then it’s settled. Our future first-born shall be named Trunksley Tarthston Lannister, first of his name.”

She laughed heartily, but turned bright red and sat up. He traced his fingers up along her spine, feeling her shiver.

“I can’t wait,” he said.

“For Trunksley? I’m afraid he’s a tardy fellow.” She still looked away.

“Yes, for Trunksley.” He wasn’t even joking anymore. “For our child. You know that, how much I want it.” He kept his hand on her skin to feel her reaction.

She was stiff as if she were nervous. “Me too.”

He sat up and rested his forehead against her shoulder. She was always so anxious about being good enough. He had to make sure she knew that he didn’t have a single doubt about her capabilities. “You’re going to be perfect. You’ll never think that, but you will be. Our child or our ten children or however many we get, they’ll love you as much as I do.”

She reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. “I’m not perfect, Jaime. You’re still blind.”

“You’re perfect to me. And my opinion is the only one that matters, because I am a Lannister. Isn’t that how it works?” He chuckled and tried to lighten her strange mood.

“No, that is  _ not _ how it works, as you well know. Hmmph. Anyway,” she abruptly changed the subject, “what about the other texts?”

Fine, he’d just have to work on her more. And he  _ would _ . He reached back for his phone. “Ten from Tommen. Single sentences about collecting more eggs, and the chickens are thriving in the warmer barn, and he made his own breakfast sandwich which was only sort of good, and Selwyn is taking him out on the boat, and do we have a spare cat lifejacket, is raw fish safe for domesticated cats, what about oysters, he doesn’t think he’ll be back for lunch, Margaery Tyrell made him feel strange, and he wonders if that’s because he’s come to understand more about biology because of cat breeding videos on Viewtube.”

Jaime took a breath.

Brienne tensed and leaned back to look at him. “He made his own sandwich?” She seemed distressed.

Jaime furrowed his brow. “Margaery Tyrell made him feel  _ strange _ ?”

They looked at one another. Brienne’s eyes filled with tears. It was very unlike her to be emotional like this.

“He  _ made his own sandwich _ ?” She blinked rapidly.

“You’re more concerned about the sandwich than  _ Margaery _ ?”

She worried her lip as she continued to blink. “Margaery is merely a consequence of the sandwich.”

“What?”

She glared at him. “You tell that boy he’s not making any other sandwich for himself for at least  _ two years _ . He’s eleven.  _ No sandwiches _ . No Margaery. Dad will breed that damned bloody cat. No more Viewtube.”

Jaime grinned as wide as ever. “See? You’re perfect. Such a ragey protective mother.”

“I am not perfect!”

He kissed her. “Whatever.”

“Hmmph.”

“Eight more texts from Selwyn about the boat and the cat and the lizard—”

“Why is Briann on the boat?” Brienne jumped to her feet and began to scramble into her discarded clothes. “See what happens when we get selfish? Lizards are on boats and boys make sandwiches.”

“—and Margaery Tyrell was in the water again and got caught in a wave, and Briann jumped overboard, but Margaery saved him while wearing almost nothing, which is, I assume, why there were strange feelings involved on the part of the sandwich boy. All is apparently well now. They’re going to Storm’s End for ice cream and the Gendry boy. Arya Stark is with them.”

“My father is alone on a boat with Arya Stark, Margaery Tyrell, Tommen, a cat, and a lizard?” Brienne exclaimed in utter dismay.

“It will be fine.” Jaime shrugged while knowing his own disbelief was showing. He looked at the rest of his texts.“Tyrion says he’s in love for real this time, it’s really real, stop smirking, it’s definitely real and going to work, he will make sure it works, really for real, tell Brienne she won’t have to kill me because it’s real this time, he swears.” He looked up, hoping her distress was fading.

It was not. “I’m very happy for him,” she growled.

“Tysha says she locked the door to the roof but slid the key under, because Tyrion was going to sneak up and spray us with whipped cream.”

Brienne threw her hands up and exclaimed to the sky. “So everyone knew we were up here anyway!”

“I do  _ not _ care.” Jaime gave her a  _ look _ . At least that served to distract her for a moment. “One from Sansa Stark…she wanted to know if she is an unlovable monstrosity.”

“Do not reply to that.”

“Wasn’t going to. Four from Willas Tyrell. He says he’s fucked up, then clarifies that he has committed a fucked-up action, not that he’s fucked up in the head, but he then wonders whether it’s both.”

“Both.”

“Definitely both. And  _ then _ he says that the previous text was sent in a moment of still-drunk stupor else his languague would never be so foul to an authority figure.” Jaime looked up. “I’m an authority figure to Willas Tyrell? How?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Jaime, you’re an authority figure to half of Westeros if not more. You just don’t care.”

He stared at her exposed collarbone, which, he fully believed, was stunning. “Maybe I should exercise that authority more. How about, say, here? With you.”

He could tell that she was successfully distracted, but it only lasted a moment. “Finish the texts so we can get this over with.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled. “Willas Tyrell says that he has committed an act of unbearable foolishness...something something he might not leave this island alive….five more paragraphs of word vomit and his hives are much improved thanks to Selwyn Tarth’s wise council. Doesn’t this boy have parents?” 

“He has Olenna, but she’s…” Brienne paused. 

“A little too much like Tywin?” Jaime offered. 

“Exactly. I’ll speak to him later. For no more than three minutes. Finally, two from…Olenna Tyrell.” He glanced at Brienne.

“About Willas?.”

“No. She first says she texted me because you didn’t respond, so she assumed you don’t have your phone because you’re probably naked and in hiding.”

“Sometimes I hate everything, Jaime. Except for you.” Brienne leaned against a wall in exasperation.

“I know. Then she tells me to tell you to check your phone once you retrieve it, because she’s sent instructions about an incoming surprise package from Storm’s End, and no don’t worry about it.”

Brienne’s sigh this time was bone-deep. “There is a lot of nonsense happening, Jaime.”

“There always is.”

“Right now, I don’t want to do anything about any of it, yet I  _ do _ .”

“I know. But there’s one thing I think you  _ should _ do instead.” He scanned her up and down with the most lascivious expression he could muster. “Selwyn is far from inept. He’ll be fine. So will Tommen and his pets. Sansa isn’t going anywhere, and Myrcy is with her. Tyrion and Tysha are grown adults. The chickens are fed. Willas is not actually our responsibility despite how it feels. So why you don’t just peel those clothes off again. We’ll have to meet the boat when it returns. Let’s take what time we have right now.”

She looked so disturbed at the idea of shirking duty, and he watched her work through each issue until she could convince herself that it was okay to take a breather. He saw the moment the glint returned to her eyes. She blinked, then slowly slid her shirt over her head. He knew his pulse would always go off the deep end like this whenever he saw her skin.

 

* * *

 

Brienne sat on the disturbingly phallic wedding log and watched her father’s boat swaying precariously as the light wind hit its sails. It was still too far off to see whether anyone were bleeding. Tommen’s binoculars were missing. Selwyn hadn’t texted saying anyone was injured. And Jaime was right. Her father was a responsible adult. Mostly.

She sucked in a very deep, salty breath and immediately wondered if deep breathing could adversely impact the baby. That was stupid. It was just a deep breath!

She was worried, that was the problem. She distracted herself by re-reading Olenna Tyrell’s text.  _ I hear Tarth is beautiful and undiscovered. What sort of people enjoy rustic island delights? Those like you, I would assume. My granddaughter is up to something. I have sent Loras to scout and also to spy on Margaery. You go on about your lovey dovey business, but if you see oddities, it’s Tyrells trying to outdo one another. Never fear. I will deal with Margaery. _

Brienne had first read the bizarre text an hour or so before, somewhat in a stupor and distracted by the difficulty of descending many flights of stairs when her legs were like jelly. It wasn’t that she had forgotten about the thing they sometimes did that had once caused Jaime to throw his back out. It was just…his… _ vigor _ could still take her breath away and make it a challenge to remember her own name.

_ Names. Baby names. _

Things would change when the baby came, and even before. She knew that. She wanted it all badly, but at the same time, what would it be like to be constrained and not able to jump Jaime’s bones whenever she felt like it? He never refused. Some people had five or six children, so clearly it was possible to sneak away in the direst of circumstances. But did those people have three college-age girls, a young boy, a cat, a lizard and six chickens to deal with? When a baby was added in, would they have any time for sex at all?

She had dreamed so many dreams on this island, but never had she dreamed that  _ she _ , Brienne Tarth of all the people in the world, would develop a chronic condition of sex-on-the-brain. It was hilarious. And terrible. What kind of mother would she be if she were more concerned about sneaking away for sex than she was about her jellylike-legs being stable enough to keep her upright and not fall onto her stomach? That’s why she was worried.

Jaime had just so-casually proclaimed how  _ perfect _ she would be as a mother. Of course, that was just Jaime being Jaime, and of course she wasn’t perfect at anything. But he  _ thought _ that. He would see her get confused and feel like a failure. He would see her upset that she didn’t yet know how to change a diaper. She was so far from perfect that he was bound to be disappointed, even though he said that was impossible. He had such fond memories of his long-departed mother, and she would definitely fail to live up to that ideal. 

She sort of wanted to run off by herself, but despite her worry, she missed him. She’d seen him not ten minutes before. Still. Tyrion had heard them leaving, and had run after them to grab his brother for some “urgent” counsel. She hoped Tyrion was being good to Tysha. She wondered if Jaime was as distracted as she was. She wondered whether pregnancy hormones made one’s thoughts scramble around like eggs in a hot pan. Eggs. Like Tommen’s self-made breakfast sandwich. Who teared up over a breakfast sandwich? A pregnant woman apparently.

She checked her phone again for a text from Selwyn. Nothing. She re-read Olenna’s text just to pass the time. Did people’s texting protocol suddenly get more formal? She prided herself on solid sentence structure, but in a text? Not entirely necessary. Olenna texted like Tywin, even though he never actually texted on his own. He dictated texts to his secretary.

Brienne could understand why Loras was being sent to keep tabs on Margaery, but the scouting part was a puzzlement. The problem was the “and also.” Scout _and_ _also_ spy. Two separate actions. Margaery didn’t need to be _scouted_.

The boat came closer to docking, and Brienne could make out figures on the deck. She hoped Tommen was okay, as he occasionally got seasick. She blocked the sun with her palm and squinted. Her father seemed to be singing, and there was a not-green Tommen sitting on the port bench. An orange and white blob was next to him on one side, Ser Pounce in his cat life jacket, and an orange and green blob on the other, Briann the Lizard in the spare cat life jacket.

She had also never dreamed of purchasing not one but two cat life jackets.

There was Arya Stark at the fore, face upturned as if she were sneaking a peak under the Titan of Braavos’ skirt. Margaery came into view, wearing what looked like a wedding dress with a long white train.

_ No. _  A wedding dress meant a wedding, and even though she was already secretly married, and even though she had expected the girls to push and prod and continue to shout about epic weddings to her face, she had  _ not _ expected something this soon. She should have.  _ Jaime _ should have. They hadn’t. In the face of island sex bliss, everything else had been obscured.

She couldn’t fathom why exactly Margaery was  _ wearing  _ the thing, but that might be the least of their worries. She supposed it could be far worse than the girls plotting something over summer holidays. Maybe they should go with it and get the whole thing done with so they wouldn’t have to keep secrets any longer. Is that what the scouting was for? A wedding location?

She was  _ not _ wearing that peculiar sack-dress. That, she would refuse.

A figure appeared behind Margaery. Loras Tyrell. They were shouting at one another and then at someone behind them, and Renly Baratheon popped up from the cabin carrying a drink. Of course he would be there, too. If Loras had been sent by Olenna, he wouldn’t leave Renly behind.

Where was the Gendry boy? That had been the reason for the voyage to begin with.

As her father slowed the boat and furled the sails to ready for docking, the angle changed, and she could see more clearly. The boat was towing a crate. It was absolutely enormous, like a giant brown cube bobbing in the sea. It must be on a raft or something. Behind the crate, a shiny rowboat was also being towed. Gendry sat in the middle with his hands on his hips and what looked like the hilt of a sword gleaming from over his shoulder.

Brienne had a sudden desire to run back to the house and warn Tysha. Not about anything in particularly. Just…in general. As in, “there is a boat coming in full of lifejacketed animals, a hideous wedding dress, a giant floating crate, and a boy in a rowboat with a sword, and that sort of thing happens twice a day at least.”

Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her father.  _ Docking in 5! O there u are. Hello! _

She smiled fondly and look up to see Selwyn waving with both hands. She appreciated his normal-sounding text.

By the time the boat was secured, she was waiting at end of the dock and was immediately wrapped up in a huge fatherly hug. A swift wave of strange emotions came over her in an instant. She thought she might  _ cry _ .

She stepped quickly and let the kelpy scent of the water clear her head. Her father’s brow furrowed. She looked away.

Margaery came up, and Brienne did a double-take. It appeared that the girl was  _ not _ wearing a wedding dress but a sail.

Her father leaned close. “Indecent exposure. Had to do something because of the boy.”

“I see.” And she did. Despite the enormous sailcloth tunic, Margaery’s bikini top was still slightly visible, compressing her in all the wrong places. “Margaery, isn’t that Myrcy’s?”

The girl nodded, but grimaced. “I grabbed her bag by mistake. She’s a little twig!”

Margaery spun around, nearly tripped over the sailcloth, and shouted at her brother. “Loras, hurry up! We’ve got things to do, and you  _ owe me _ for agreeing to spy on me! As if. I promise I will tell Grandmother about the pickle incident if you send even one report!”

Loras looked a little green, staring at his feet which suspiciously clomped as if he were a tap dancer. No…he couldn’t be wearing horseshoes for people, like Gendry had made for Rickon Stark? “I swear. Don’t ever mention pickles again.”

“This is a failed trend, I’m telling you!” Renly ran up, flashed a quick smile at Brienne, then hopped after the Tyrells. “And that Gendry kid does  _ not _ look just like me! Hey Lor, want a pickle!”

Tommen waddled over, carrying his two pets by the handles of their life jackets. She regrouped, cleared her throat, and smiled at the boy. “It might not be wise to bring the animals onto the boat anymore. The seas are too unpredictable, don’t you think?”

Tom didn’t even contemplate as he usually did. “Definitely. Ser Pounce was very queasy, and Briann the Lizard was nearly swallowed by a merciless abyss. I might not like boats.”

She knew this meant that Tom himself was queasy. She retrieved a peppermint from her pocket, taken from the Tarth kitchen for this specific purpose. “Let this melt in your mouth, and Ser Pounce can clear his head from the fumes.”

Tom popped the candy in his mouth and grinned around it. “Thank you, Aunt Brienne. You always know what Ser Pounce requires.” He hobbled down the dock with his animal burdens, and parked himself on the sand to un-jacket them.

Just like that, she teared up. This hormone thing was  _ not _ something she was well equipped to handle. She could feel her lip quiver, bloody hells!

Selwyn’s arm wrapped around her. “What’s the matter, my girl? You looked bright as brisket earlier.”

She couldn’t even look at him. “He’s…he’s going to be  _ twelve _ .”

“Who? What?”

She blinked. “Tommen. He’s going to be twelve in six months. I hate it.” She stared at the boy she loved as if he really were her own son. 

Selwyn chuckled. Of all things! “Ah, I see.”

She snapped her head to glare at him. “Why are you laughing?”

“No, dumbass! You can’t! No one can! Or maybe I can, but not you!” Arya Stark shouted and stomped up the dock.

“Language, Arya!” Brienne yelled. 

“Sorry!”

Gendry was in his rowboat, moving closer to shore along the dock as he tried to keep up with the angry girl. “I can too! I’m the best rower in King’s Landing! I’ve got a trophy!”

“You can’t row all the way around the island in ten minutes, dumbass!” Arya jumped to the sand at the end of the dock instead of using the stairs. “Sorry!”

“Can too! I’m gonna. You want to come with me?” Gendry ran into the dock.

Arya kicked sand at him, but it fell far short. “First, no way, second, my weight would add extra time so that’s extra stupid.”

“Please refrain from kicking sand into the eyes of the animal kingdom!” Tommen demanded. 

“You weigh like one stone.” Gendry was laughing as he continued to row horribly. 

“Ughhhhh!!! Just come get oysters. Or clams and cockles. They’re really good.”

“Nuh uh. I’m gonna row. Time me. I’m going! Here I go!” Gendry took at least five minutes to turn the boat around, and then he did row.

He had some impressive skill, Brienne could see that, but Tarth was much too large to row around in an hour let alone ten minutes. The folly of youth.

Arya sighed audibly enough to hear at the end of the dock. “Fine, I’m going to go wait for him to stop being a du—idiot. I’ll paint my face like a crab and scare him when he lands.”

“Docks.” Selwyn nodded kindly.

“Fails!” Arya ran off.

Brienne had  _ not _ forgotten. “So why were you laughing?” she demanded, keeping one eye on Tommen to make sure the cat and lizard weren’t going to get away.

Selwyn stared at her until she felt compelled to meet his gaze. “How far along are you?”

She blinked, swallowed thickly…felt her stomach seize then forced it to relax in case of adverse impact. “How can you possibly know?  _ Jaime  _ doesn’t even know! I didn’t even know until two days ago!”

Selwyn looked so sly he could sell chicken to a vegan. “Well, you really were eating a lot of biscuits. You weren’t feeling well, but you’ve had a sort of glow about you. I know the difference between sea air and pine pollen, and when a woman’s got in the family way.”

She grimaced and looked away at the crabs scrambling around on the sand. “You could have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

She was surprised that he might be right. She’d always existed somewhat in disbelief that anything good happened.

“You look just like your mother,” he said, almost sadly.

“I look just like  _ you _ .”

“You know what I mean. I saw it four times. I’m very glad to see it again in you.” Selwyn cleared his throat.

She turned and nestled her head against his shoulder, clinging to him tightly and breathing in his fatherly smell of woods and fish.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

She nodded hard. “Very. And scared.”

“Of course. But you know what?”

“What?”

“It was just the two of us for so long, and we can get kind of melancholy. I’m real glad there’s about a hundred people here now, and more on the way!” He chuckled and made his chest rumble against her.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Me too. It’s hard to be melancholy when there’s a lizard wearing a lifejacket.”

He laughed so hard she had to stand upright. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

“You’re going to be just fine, my girl. Great even,” he insisted.

She glanced at the rough wood of the dock. “Jaime thinks I’ll be perfect, even though he doesn’t know yet. He wants it so badly. I’m afraid of disappointing him.”

Her father laughed harder than he had at the lizard. “He might be too much of an idealist sometimes, but disappointing him is pretty much impossible. You’d have to cheat on him.”

She was appalled! She’d rather murder him than cheat on him, the very  _ idea _ ! Not that she’d shed one drop of his blood, unless it was an accidental paper cut…

“You see? No danger of that. You’ll be fine, and he’ll be fine, and you’ll be fine together. Trust your old dad.” Selwyn kept his arm around her as they walked down the dock.

By the time they reached the sand, she couldn’t think of much else to say other than, “Okay.”

Selwyn paused on the beach, looking at the old Tarth manor. “That old house is where you were born, and this beach here is where I married your mother, and that green meadow up there is where you took your first steps. All I want for you is memories like I have. Some here, on this beautiful island. I’m glad it’s still the same as it was.”

Brienne smiled. “This will always be a home for me. Jaime wants to buy the holiday house, too. He feels the same. We’re always going to come here, Dad.”

“Excellent! I was hoping you would. Now I just pray all those other city folk don’t come gallivanting here and ruin it. If they discover these beaches…I’m going to have find my old sword.”

It hit her suddenly, the revelation. Her brain really was functioning strangely at the moment, but no matter, because she figured it out. Any thought of surprise weddings or motherhood angst were set aside. Loras’ scouting…the sort of people who like Tarth…

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“I think Olenna Tyrell intends to put a hotel here. She’s like Tywin. She’ll try to buy the whole island.” She grabbed his arm and stood tall. “That  _ cannot _ happen! City people are nothing compared to the clientele of the Tyrell hotels! They’re like…the city people  _ of _ city people.”

Selwyn raised one brow, stared at her, then smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, she can sure as hells try, but she can’t do it.”

“She’s terrifying, Dad. You don’t know her.”

“I know Tarth. And she can’t.”

Brienne peered at the blue sky in exasperation. “Community bonding isn’t going to be enough to stop—”

“She can’t because I own Tarth.”

Brienne blinked. A lot. She turned her head down slowly to stare at her father. He turned beet red. “What?”

Selwyn slapped his hands against his thighs. “Well what do you think it means to be  _ the _ Tarths of Tarth??!? We’ve got the old house and everything.”

“I…I thought we had some of the beach and…the barn?” Brienne couldn’t comprehend this new revelation. All this time… her whole life, and they  _ owned _ the island?

Selwyn at least had the sense to seem embarrassed. “It’s all ours. On a technicality. There was no lord of the Storm Lands or Warden of the East when the old treaty got signed, so Tarth got a parliamentary seat to itself. The Tarths got grandfathered in as representatives, and the land never changed hands. I think everybody forgot about us honestly. So…you’re an heiress! Surprise.”

“Why…Why didn’t you tell me!” She almost shouted. “I hate surprises!”

He rubbed at his beard. “Your mom and I…we wanted to raise you all normal like. Not stuffy. You have to learn good character, earn respect. See what all that gold got for the Lannisters? They had to forget about their money to find themselves.”

That was some weird logic, but Brienne did not feel equipped to rebut it. “There is no comparison between Lannister gold and Tarth grape-berry syrup.”

“Oh, I don’t know, my girl. The crabs gets us a couple million a quarter.”

She wanted to plop onto the sand and rethink her entire existence, but it might have an adverse impact on the baby.

 


	8. In Which There is a Fight in Rhyme, a Startling Revelation, and a Horse Ferry

 

Jaime stared at his brother who was staring at him. This was taking ages. Brienne’s clue burned a hole in his pocket, and his fingers twitched.

“But he’s going to _find out_!” Tyrion insisted.

“Of course he is, but not _now_.” Thus far, Jaime had not received a royal summons about his own secret marriage, so he assumed Tywin currently had an inept intern tracking his children’s activities.

“But he’s going to find everyone Tysha has ever spoken to and interrogate them!” Tyrion insisted. “She’ll decide I’m not worth it and bail.”

“He didn’t even do that to Brienne, and you haven’t even shut up long enough for me to say congratulations.” Jaime raised one brow and waited.

Tyrion stopped pacing. “Oh? Sorry. I accept.”

“Well congratulations. Really.” Jaime leaned down for a nice brotherly hug.   

Tyrion returned it, then started nervous-laughing. “We were outside the Oyster Shack. Horrible atmosphere, stank like Fleabottom. It felt right. She wanted a tourist-shop ring, so we found one and it cost me five silver lions. _Five_. That’s cheaper than a beer.”

“Your beer.”

“Good beer. She said it was perfect, and now it’s on a chain around her neck because I’m scared Father will terrify her.”

Jaime almost instinctively touched his own chain, but stopped himself. “Tysha is a good one, baby brother. She really is. I’m proud of you for choosing her.”

Tyrion chuckled. “So am I. It’s a lot of growth. I didn’t think I had it in me!”

“I did.” Jaime shrugged. “Tysha did.”

“I know.” Tyrion swallowed, then purposely changed the mood. “How is Brienne? She can’t be too bad anymore considering how _active_ you were on the roof last night. And this morning. And late morning.”

Jaime refused to be embarrassed. “She’s better. No sickness, but then we didn’t really eat. Food.”

“You sly dog.” Tyrion grinned.

Jaime, despite feeling genuine happiness for his brother, had enough. “Tyrion?”

“Hmm?”

“Isn’t Tysha waiting upstairs, all alone and newly engaged?”

Tyrion’s brows rose to comic heights. “Oh fuck! I’m the worst! I’ve got to learn. See you later.” He spun around and ran straight into Willas Tyrell.

Jaime groaned.

Tyrion groaned.

Willas Tyrell sniffled as if he had found an entire chest of Tywin’s Quarthian snuff. “I accidentally broke up with Sansa even though I only wanted to dissolve our folk duo because it was interfering with the poetry of our love, but then she broke up with me for _real_ because I did it first by accident! I think my life is over. I think I might lose all my hair and end up a criminal mastermind.”

Jaime and Tyrion glanced at each other. Tyrion awkwardly patted the boy on the arm. “There, there…it will be…fine.”

“It _won’t_! Read her text!” Willas shoved his phone at Tyrion and sank to his knees on Selwyn’s linoleum. “I deserve cat scratch fever and egg hives and should resign myself to life in the barn of the little asses.”

Tyrion tried to stifle a smirk and read the offending text in the deepest, gravest tone. “Willas Allerius Tyrell, O-M-G, I hate you you warty toad. Why aren’t you wrapped in my arms and legs and hair? But I hate you. But my undying love will never die. I hate you. You should have killed me dead.” Tyrion coughed. He went on. “And nothing is spelled correctly. Or at all. There are a lot of singular u’s and some numbers.”

“Did she say dead, d-e-a-d, or ded, d-e-d?” Jaime asked.

Tyrion’s brows rose again. “There’s a difference beyond dreadful syntax? You know this how?”

“There is an extreme difference, and I know because of Chapter 14.” Jaime shook his head. “Never mind. Which is it?”

“D-e-d. Ded.”

“Ah, it’s not serious then. She just has feelz.” Jaime nodded to himself. “Feelz can make you ded.”

“What in the world?” Tyrion almost shouted.

“It _is_ serious! It’s as serious as…as…an impaled lung!” Willas wailed. “I have inadvertently lost my very soul! I am ripped in two. I am not even human anymore! There’s no telling what I might do with my wood burner!”

Jaime had no idea what to say to this insanity. He needed Brienne. He didn’t think _she_ would have any better ideas about Willas’ dire scenario, but at least they’d be in the same room.

He sighed. Tyrion really should get back to Tysha, and Willas couldn’t just be left wallowing in the kitchen. He grabbed the boy by the shoulder. “Come on. We’ll go to the beach where you can clear your head of leftover liquor and angst.”

Willas reluctantly dragged his feet, and Tyrion nodded gratefully before disappearing up the stairs. Jaime fully intended on claiming a favor in return, preferably one that involved watching over a legion of crazy people so he and Brienne could sneak away again.

Jaime marched Willas out to the sand, but it was slow going.

The boy…or rather young man, but Jaime was mentally convinced all these weirdos were still infants, halted. “Mr. Lannister?”

Jaime never heard that salutation used outside of work. Everyone else just called him Jaime, Uncle Jaime, Hot Uncle Jaime, or Brienne Tarth’s partner. He did not correct Willas Tyrell, however. “Yes?”

“You are a man deeply in love. We all know that. Surely you can understand my heart-shredding soul-deep grief. What do I _dooooo_?” Willas choked a little.

Jaime was surprised that he felt just a tiny bit sorry for Willas. But it was about _Sansa_. Sansa Stark. She was just…annoying. “Are you certain this is meant to be? It’s very hard to tell sometimes. Emotions can deceive. Perhaps you’re not quite as compatible as you think?”

Willas blinked rapidly, sucking in several deep breaths. “Would you die for Brienne Tarth?”

“Yes.” Jaime didn’t have to think about it, even though the question caught him off guard.

“Would you kill for her?” Willas pressed, a fiery fervor in his eyes that made Jaime wonder if Willas had gotten into something stronger than liquor. There was no telling what Selwyn kept in the back of is liquor cabinet.

“Yes.” He wasn’t going to lie.

“Would you die if she were gone from your life?” Willas raised his arms and gripped Jaime’s with scary finger-claws.

Jaime was very glad he was forty and not twenty-whatever and stupid. “No.”

Willas stepped back as if he’d gotten slapped. “What? How could you say that and claim to love her?”

“I don’t claim anything.” Jaime was getting mad. “I _do_ love her. More than I could ever possibly explain, and there’s no point in trying. But I wouldn’t just _die_ because I can’t. Willas, adults have responsibilities. They have people to take care of. Children could be left behind. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much pain you’re in, you just go on because you have to. But it’s very shallow to dwell on death like this. Death isn’t a marker of love, you idiot. Love isn’t a poem. If you want it to be real, start thinking about life, not death. Do you want Sansa Stark for life? Forever? Do you know what that means? It means that you love her when you’re grumpy and doing taxes, and when she’s got the flu and thinks she hideous and feels worse, and when you wake up five years older and your shoulder starts creaking, and when she gets a visible scar from surgery, and when you’re both looking back on decades of life and you don’t look like you do now, and you love each other anyway. Stop romanticizing pain. If you don’t want to love when life is boring, you’re not ready.”

Jaime stepped back, shocked at the tension in his body, but he was just _done_ with this. He had a clue to read and a wife to snog.

Willas touched his own cheek. Jaime took a second to wonder if he _had_ accidentally slapped the boy, but no. Willas was just weird.

“I…I’ve never heard anybody talk like that.” Willas looked awed.

Jaime closed his eyes. “Of course not. You exist in the clouds. I did once, too.” His eyes popped open. “It sucked. Go get a job. Learn to fry an egg. If you want Sansa, win her back and go live in a one-room shack for six months. If you don’t hate each other after that, it’s real. Understand?”

Willas nodded like a bobblehead. “I understand. Everything. I see so clearly now. I think you might be an actual sage. Would you take a money order for counsel or would you accept Tyrell Hotel credits?”

“Have a nice day, Willas! Contemplate your existence and talk to Selwyn about life skills!” Jaime backed away and turned toward the beach.

The boat was in, but he’d been too late to catch anyone. He glanced back at the summer house where the usual din was flooding out the windows. Everybody would be over there for a late lunch, or possibly down at the Oyster Shack.

This was his chance to read the latest clue in peace. He sat on the warm sand and tore the envelope open.

 

_When I was a girl, I would burrow into flaxen forts and dream of my best friend finding me._

_The place where I dreamed is a shelter to many and a solace for two._

_Find where I stand stalwart and your next clue._

 

Jaime sighed with relief. This was an easy clue, and he could go immediately. Or…

He could text Brienne to meet him, and they could sneak in a repeat of the morning’s quite-satisfying activity. Of course that was the better option.

_How about you find me and I burrow into you?_

If she could play such a saucy game, so could he.

 

* * *

 

Myrcy was decidedly frantic. She had to hide this state entirely, but it was eating her up inside. The fact of the matter was, they were _not_ going to finish wedding preparations in time for the planned historical event celebration as Marg had decided to call it. And it wasn’t nearly as historical as it should be. Myrcy cursed herself for not researching the history of Tarthian weddings. What had she done all summer anyway? Her Viewtube videos of Tarth were popular, but they had no meaning. Nothing had meaning. Life had no meaning if the epic wedding didn’t happen epically. Fortunately, Myrcy’s arms weren’t as weak as Sansa’s so she could prop her head up on the kitchen island as she slumped on a stool.

She agreed that the Uncle Jaime/Aunt Brienne nuptials _would_ be an actual historical event, but how could it possibly be the epic, wondrous love finale it deserved to be when they would not be ready?!?!? Specifically, _she_ would not be ready. She had failed. Time had gotten away from her, and now she’d lost almost a whole day because Sansa was in despair.

They had not even opened Marg’s supply crate which was currently still bobbing in the water! There were no flowers made into garlands and draperies and tents. There was no dress made. Aunt Brienne’s wedding finery currently consisted of a basted sheath made of Myrcy’s bed sheet without even one sequin. That’s all she had been able to manage as Sansa cried on her shoulder. They had not even figured out the food, and the six white horses were lost at sea.

So what if Marg had dashed off to figure it out, it _didn’t matter_ . Nothing mattered anymore. And she couldn’t even sob about her distress because the magical unicorn deserving of wedding wonder was _right there_. Myrcy trembled in her seat.

“Sansa, you’ve got to stop now. I think you’re very dehydrated.” Aunt Brienne patted Sansa on the shoulder, but she looked a little exasperated. She’d whispered to Grandfather Selwyn before he’d taken Tommen off somewhere.

“I’m just going to die now, and then I’m going to be alone and die alone. And I’ll have to live in the old tower at Winterfell and crumble with the moss. I’ll just write poetry about death and sell it on Fleabay.” Sansa covered her face with her palms and shook.

“You can’t die twice. Why don’t you take a deep breath and have some pancakes?” Aunt Brienne kept trying, even though her pancakes had only recently become not completely terrible, but Sansa really wouldn’t listen to anyone.

A phone buzzed, and all three of them checked. She got nothing. Sansa clearly got nothing since she cried harder. Aunt Brienne dropped her phone in the sink and turned around. Her neck was super red.

She finally turned back around, but she focused on grabbing her phone and wiping it off with a potholder. “Myrcy, would you be alright here for a while? There’s something that…needs…attention. But I can stay.” She looked up then. “Whatever you need, really.”

Aunt Brienne was always so nice, Myrcy wanted to wail like Sansa. She should have the most perfect historical event wedding anyone had ever seen, and now she wouldn’t! Myrcy swallowed her deep, spleen-level disappointment and attempted a smile. “Yes, we will be fine. I think I’ll get Sansa to walk on the beach. We’ll go back to the Shack for dinner.”

Aunt Brienne’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? I can stay and reheat some of those crab biscuits?”

“No, go. You should have fun here, too!” Myrcy nodded enthusiastically despite the sharks biting around inside her stomach.

“Well, okay. I’ll go.” Aunt Brienne stood there for a while, but she seemed kind of nervous herself, and she finally left.

Myrcy wondered if she were still sick, and then if that could mean a wedding in three days wouldn’t even be possible! They might have to wait. Maybe if Marg found the horses, they could stay in the barn until everything was perfect. Maybe five days? Surely she could handle all the sequins by then.

She grabbed Sansa’s arm and forced her from the kitchen stool. “Come on, we’re going to find Marg.”

“I can’t move. My legs have been dumped.”

Myrcy had _had_ it. She shook Sansa by the shoulders and glared at her. “I know you’ve got pain in every cell, but there are _critical_ things happening, or _not_ happening, Sansa! We’re not even at all ready for the wedding! We _need_ you and your hands. And even your brain!”

Sansa cried. “I can’t focus on the wedding! It reminds me that my future is dead and I’m going to become a dead wight poet!”

Myrcy had to risk everything, years of friendship and trust, for the greater good. “Willas isn’t even hot,” she declared.

Sansa turned rigid and leaned back so far that Myrcy’s grip was the only thing keeping her from falling backward like a slab. “How _could_ you! Willas is _beautiful_ like a wood-burnt painting! Like a lyric about a beautiful boy who becomes real from a spell! How _could_ you, you who have been my own true favorite sister!”

Myrcy blinked. “ _I’m_ your favorite sister? I thought it was Marg.”

Sansa wailed. “No, it’s youuuuuuu! And now you’ve betrayed me! I can’t even.”

“Do you want to slap me? You can.” Myrcy turned her face so her cheek would be more convenient. She didn’t think she was _anyone’s_ favorite!

Sansa sucked in shallow breaths. “Yes, I think so, but I love you, but I’m so angry, but I still love you.”

“I love you, toooooo!” Myrcy teared up. “Slap me. I deserve it!”

Sansa raised a pretty palm and struck Myrcy across the cheek. It sort of felt like Ser Pounce’s paw when he was not at all angry. No claws.

“There. I have never been so violent, except that time with Arya in the limousine, but she was a haterrrrr!” Sansa cried and collapsed against Myrcy’s shoulder.

The screen door shot open, and Marg burst inside. She had finally changed out of the sail, even though she said she loved it.

“My loves! It’s all going to be okay. The horses are _not_ lost at sea, but the gps broke or whatever. That ferry I hired went the wrong way and got caught in some kind of squid stream? I don’t know. Something. It’s going to dock on the other side of the island after dark. We’ve got to meet it. I found a boat house that’s going to house the horses and the horse master, and they’ll be ready! Isn’t that amazing!”

“You…hired…a…ferry?” Sansa sniffed.

Marg rolled her eyes and slapped the granite counter. “ _Yessss_ , I told you. You’re so drugged up on feelz, gods. We’ve got a wedding to plan. The crate has to get out of the water, and then the sequins, and all that.”

“How are we moving that crate? It weighs like…fifty tons or something?” Myrcy asked. When she’d seen it, she’d realized that forty thousand sequins must weigh a _lot_.

Marg tapped her chin with one finger. “Could we use the little asses? Like a team of oxen?”

Myrcy vehemently shook her head. “Not a chance. They’re little and cute, and their legs are like twigs. And Tommen would find out and do something dumb like a tying the chickens to them to protect them from labor abuse.”

Marg grimaced. “You’re right. That won’t work.”

“If we wait for the six white horses, maybe they could tow it out of the water?” Sansa suggested amidst sniffling.

“Oh my gods, you’re being _helpful_!” Myrcy shouted and hugged her friend.

“That’s it! Even in despair, Sansa has good ideas!” Marg’s eye gleamed. “We’re going to do this. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Hey, I got one right!”

Myrcy remembered another difficulty. “How are we going to sneak away and do all this when Loras is hanging around? He said he wouldn’t spy, but can we trust that?”

“Oh yeah. He wouldn’t dare betray me now. I know about the pickle.” Marg rubbed her fingers together like a movie villain.

“I wanna know about the pickle! Tell me, lift me up from the depths of my misery,” Sansa pleaded.

“No, my darlings. You are far too innocent, and you’d never be able to look Lor in the face again without smirking. He’d know and my leverage would be diminished. As it is, we own him, and therefore Renly. I’ve sent them off to scout. They won’t be a problem even if they find out!”

“That rhymed,” Sansa said, then cried, “Like…like Willas does!”

“You said my name!”

Willas barged through the door, his poet shirt grimy and torn, his hair matted to his head more than it usually was, a wild look in his eyes. Myrcy thought he might have lost a whole stone or something.

“I did not!” Sansa shrieked.

“I heard your alabaster tones! You did so!”

Sansa turned into an ice queen. “Why are you even here? You dumped me, you heinous beautiful ass!”

Willas recoiled. “ _You_ dumped _me_ , my dear! I have been wallowing in the room of the bass!”

The door opened yet again, and Loras and Renly came clomping in on their obnoxious horseshoes for men. “Hey! It’s an idiot soiree!”

“Shut up, shut up!” Willas and Sansa shouted together, making Sansa cry and Willas slump over the kitchen island.

Marg whispered, “They’re having a lover’s quarrel. I think they’ll get back together by tomorrow, but this ride is bumpy.”

Myrcy nodded.

Renly pulled a go-pro from his pocket and started filming. He winked. “In case this is epic or whatever. Isn’t that what you girls are always after?”

“What a pedestrian misevaluation of important historical content!” Marg shouted.

“I don’t think misevaluation is a word,” Loras pondered. “Is it?”

“No!” Willas shouted.

“Go!” Sansa wailed.

Willas glared at his brother. “Obey her wise command, or a tale of a pickle I will tell!”

“On my behalf, do not demand! I am a strong, independent woman bloody hells!”

Marg gasped. “We should stop. Their feelz are running too hot if they’re rhyming.”

“How do you know about the pickle!” Loras screeched.

“I want to know about the pickle!” Sansa yelled.

Willas spun to face her. “How fast your heart turns fickle.”

Sansa threw a potholder at him. “I am loyal to a fault! Never have I loved so deep and been cast aside!”

Willas pounded his chest with one fist. “Your love sure came to a halt! My stupor state and undeveloped sense of self you do deride!”

“Oh it’s getting worse!” Loras proclaimed with glee.

“I wanted all the castles in the air with you! Birds and dogs and babies, too! You threw it all away for a solo song, you scum!” Sansa wept and shouted and paced.

“I did no such thing, my thoughtless shrew! I disbanded for the sake of love so true! How dare you behead my heart, you bum!” Willas started to weep as loudly as Sansa.

Sansa stomped her feet and shook her fists, tears flying everywhere. “Nobody’s ever been so mean to me, and all I did was love you to death you stupid fool! Don’t ever speak to me again or I might die!” And she ran upstairs with her hair streaming behind her.

“You have killed me and sold my organs on the black market! I’m going to buy a ticket and fly!” And Willas ran out of the house with his poet shirt rippling behind him.

Renly stopped the go-pro.

“That was the best worst thing I’ve ever seen,” Loras said in awe.

“We have to post that somewhere.” Renly checked the footage.

Marg warned them, “Not until they’re back together and can look back on this fondly. Otherwise it’s not fair.”

“Fine, fine. But where do we post? We don’t have a Viewtube channel.” Renly glanced at Loras.

“I told you we should have set one up a long time ago! Now we’re just pathetic influencer wannabes.” Loras looked disgusted.

Myrcy raised her hand.

“Yes, dear?” Marg called, soundinng just like her grandmother.

“You can use my channel. I pretty much only post historical travel stuff and tutorials, but it could work.”

Marg nodded enthusiastically. “Her channel is _amazing_! You’d love it!”

“Doubtful,” Loras snickered. “But sure, why not? How many subscribers do you even have? Like twenty?”

Myrcy glared. “Three hundred thousand. And like forty.”

Renly dropped the go-pro. Loras caught it in mid-air, and they gaped at each other before staring back at Myrcy. “You’ve got _three hundred thousand_ subscribers? Are you serious?”

“She does!” Marg exclaimed. “Told you it was amazing.”

Loras blinked. “Then why the fuck are you still riding a bike? You could buy a cool car!”

Myrcy was confused. “Just because I have a lot of subs doesn’t mean I have _money_. It’s all just for fun. I don’t even have a posting schedule.”

“Wait, you aren’t _monetized_ ?!??! O-m-g.” Loras looked so shocked. “Marg, _seriously_?!?! You’ve got this huge business opportunity right in front of your face, and you haven’t even seen it?”

Marg blinked now. She stared at Myrcy. She blinked more. “Oh…my…gods. Whyyyy!!! Hoowwwwww! I’m so _stupid_!”

“True,” Loras offered.

“Shut up! Pickle!!!!”

Loras shut up.

Marg darted over to Myrcy. “I’m so sorry! I’ve failed you! Don’t you see? This is the answer to all your problems! Monetize your channel! I can be your manager and get you product placement! You can do whatever you want, oh my gods.”

Myrcy deflated. Her Viewtube channel was the only thing she had that was _just_ hers. Sometimes Marg and Sansa helped her film, or made an appearance, but it was really hers. If she made it so formal, it wouldn’t be fun anymore. It would be _work_. And it would become Marg’s.

But she _had_ to work…and she _was_ tired of making artisanal hemp coffees. She still didn’t want to go to uni. She didn’t even really want to leave Tarth…like ever.

Maybe? She would think about it.

“I will think about it.”

Marg grinned, super excited looking. “Good. Now, we’ve got to go stuff Sansa full of tissue so we _proceed_ , you know?”

Myrcy grinned back. “I _know_.”

“What do you know?” Loras asked.

“Pickle! Get out now. Go scout or try the Oyster Shack or something. Pickle!” Marg shouted.

“Shut up shut _up_!” Loras grabbed Renly and dragged him out of the house, clomping awkwardly onto the porch..

“And now our watch begins,” Marg whispered.

Myrcy nodded, her mind racing with images of sparkly sequins and floral archways and new kinds of Viewtube content.

 

* * *

 

Jaime leaned against the door of the barn, hand in his pocket, grimace on his face. Brienne had not texted back, but he knew she would come.

To no avail.

The barn was currently occupied by Selwyn, Tommen, two cats, one lizard, six chickens, and twelve little asses. There was no blind, fat hawk, however there _was_ a makeshift desk in the far corner, with images of the Seven nailed to the walls. Could there actually be a septon doing...something...in Selwyn’s barn? He’d thought it was some sort of in-joke.

He felt her approach as he always did. He held out his hand, and soon, she took it.

“I haven’t even been able to get to the loft, which is, I assume, where the next clue is hidden.” He rolled his head against the old wood of the door to look at her. She was blushing, thinking about his text, he knew.

“It is. It took me a bit to get away.” She shrugged. “Sansa.”:

“Willias,” Jaime nodded. “I’m deeply disappointed that we can’t be alone.”

Her blush grew darker, and she whispered, “Maybe not here…”

He stood to attention. In more ways than one. “Brienne Lannister is definitely bolder than Brienne Tarth!”

She glared at him. “I am _still_ Brienne Tarth, and I am precisely the same.” But as she said it, her eyes seemed to take on a faraway look, and they widened. She smiled a little.

“Not quite,” he suggested, puzzling over her reaction. She _was_ more at ease on the island lately, apart from her sickness, even though she’d eaten five butter biscuits every day. He changed the subject abruptly, wanting to know, but there was something niggling in the depths of his mind that he couldn’t quite form. “How are you feeling? You seemed a lot better this morning. Still okay?”

She grinned outright, her eyes sparkling as she leaned back against the barn door, too. “I felt _great_ this morning, as you well know.”

He wondered whether his face conveyed the predatory instinct that arose in him whenever she dared to be such a minx. “So did I.”

“I know. I made sure of it.” She twined her fingers with his.

He thought he might need new trousers. They were quite tight.

She took pity on him. “I do feel better. I got some morning…some upset stomach tablets. They work well.”

“I’m so glad. I was worried.”

She raised her free hand and placed it on his cheek, her fingers just tangling in his hair. That always _really_ got to him. “I know you were. I hope you aren’t now.”

“You told me you were fine. I believe you.” He bit his lip. Soon, he would ignore everyone and haul her up into the loft anyway.

“Good.” She stared at his mouth.

“Good,” he repeated.

He did drag her behind a post and closed the very short distance to take her mouth. It felt raw somehow, as if he hadn’t seen her for weeks rather than hours. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and his pushed his leg in between hers.

“Uncle Jaime? Where did you go? I’m training the little asses!” Tommen’s voice barged into his thoughts.

“What a thing!” Selwyn’s booming voice shattered the spell.

Jaime sighed and stepped back.

Brienne caught her breath, flushed as she always was in this state, and she smoothed her shirt. One hand paused very briefly over her stomach.

“Oh no! Ser Pounce is attacking Gatehouse Ami!” Tommen’s wailed.

Jaime was distracted. Several things were coalescing at once in his mind.

“Oh dear. Tom, he’s not…attacking. Remember the videos?” Selwyn was trying so hard not to shatter the boy’s innocent delusions.

“This was not meant to happen _now_!” Tommen sounded so upset. “I just wanted him to begin courtship!”

Jaime stared at a laughing Brienne as she watched her father and her…well, whatever Tom was. Step-nephew-adopted-son-person. A little ass wandered over and nudged his leg, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

“Cats move fast, lad! That’s the way of nature,” Selwyn explained.

“Is Gatehouse Ami going to become pregnant now? How many kittens will we have? I hope ten.” Tommen phased quickly from dismay to possibility.

But all Jaime heard was one word.

Pregnant. It rang like a bell. _Pregnant…pregnant…pregnant…_

He clutched the post with his one hand.

This was… _it_. This was why she’d been sick only in the morning, why she seemed different after she got back from the doctor. Why she wrote a random scavenger hunt full of her childhood dreams. Why she hadn’t told him. She wanted to tell him, he knew. He could tell now. She was doing it in her own way. These things were hard for her.

She was excited. He could tell that, too. And nervous. This explained _everything_ . How had he not seen? How did he miss _this_?

Weren’t women supposed to taste different? He should have known! How could he have thought it was gluten!

And now he knew and he’d have to pretend he _didn’t_ know. She had been so happy about her clues, leading him from place to place. He wouldn’t ruin that for her. Gods, this was going to be hard…

He was going to be a father. Again. Sort of. Really. It hit him like a sack of potatoes. Was it always such an odd shock when dreams came true? He felt sort of weak. His foot slipped on some hay, and he tumbled back to land on his tailbone. At least it was good cover for his startled state.

“Jaime!” Brienne bent down to help him up.

He wanted to tell her that bending was a questionable activity, but he _couldn’t_. Oh, he was going to be a nightmare when he could finally talk about it. Hopefully soon, maybe that night if he could finish the hunt. No more sexual distractions, he decided. He had clues to solve.

“You’re wearing your beach shoes, not your land shoes,” Brienne commented.

He couldn’t even tell the difference. He just nodded, still in awe.

She glanced at him. There was a _look_ there. A _look_. “Maybe you should change them.”

No sexual distractions!

“Maybe I should,” he agreed, his resolve fading instantly.

“I think you have more shoes in our closet. In our room.” She bit her own lip.

Damn it all. “That’s usually where shoes are kept. I’m feeling urgent about the state of my...feet.”

“As am I.”

He gripped her hand and was nearly of the mind to throw her over his shoulder.

“You okay over there?” Selwyn asked.

Jaime got nudged again, and he glanced down, letting Brienne keep her hand on his arm for some steady support in the face of life-altering shock and also undeniable lust. “Fine. I got tripped by a little ass.”

“Your brother’s not here!” Selwyn chortled.

 

* * *

 

Marg stood at the end of the dock with Myrcy and Sansa. It was the dead of night, the moon full above them. Probably like ten o’clock even.

They had successfully escaped scrutiny by the simple feat of not returning to the house. Marg fully expected Myrcy at least to get a bunch of texts, but she hadn’t. They’d gone with Loras and Renly to the Oyster Shack for dinner, and since Willas refused to come out of his room at Tarth manor, the annoying boys had gone back to drink grapeberry whatever with him.

The wait was _boring_. They could see the old white ferry slugging along to approach the dock, but it would still take time.

Sansa was still in despair, but at least she was present. She was furiously drawing in her notebook, a dripping candle in one hand because the yellow light and fire pain were good for her soul or something.

Myrcy was sewing a veil made out of very fine fishnet. Marg worried that it would be hideous, but it wasn’t something to fight about now. She had no skills that required the use of hands. There was no business to be conducted until the ferry was in. So she occupied herself by wondering just _how_ great the current Hot Uncle Jaime/Aunt Brienne boning session was.

Its existence wasn’t in question. There was only one reason why either would forget to ask where Myrcy was or tell her good night. Plus, Tommen had texted her to tell her that he was staying with Grandfather Selwyn in order to observe Ser Pounce’s post-breeding behavior.

Marg knew. She _knew_. That had been orchestrated, and there was no way they weren’t taking advantage of a shockingly empty house. Taking advantage all night long…on the floor, in the shower, on the granite kitchen island…

She sighed and scratched under her septa’s collar. Things were dire. They had already been dire, but they were dire-er.

Myrcy cried out, probably stabbing herself with a needle for the fifth time. “Ouch! It’s too dark, but if I don’t sew, I’ll never finish!”

“Want my candle? It’s only a little bit hurty,” Sansa offered.

“I would, but I can’t get wax on this veil!” Myrcy grumbled.

“I think there’s blood on it anyway. We have to clean it.” Sansa squinted at the mesh.

“Oh damn!” Myrcy threw the veil down and hopped up to pace the dock. “It’s too much! It’s not going to be nearly as epic as the wedding of the first female Evenstar during the age of heroes when there were apparently a thousand blue ravens spreading ancient glitter bombs." Myrcy had spent the entire dinner at the Oyster Shack researching historical weddings of Tarth and studiously ignoring _The Waiter_. Trystane. From Dorne.

Marg glared. She hadn’t worked _this_ hard to deal with a demoralized team. “It’s going to be more epic than epic ever has been. Shut up and sew.”

Myrcy plopped down again. “Okay.”

So they waited.

A sploshing sound pierced the creepy silence, then Arya Stark’s screeching soon followed.

“Just stop now, dumbass! It’s been like seven ages!” She scrambled over the rocks of the breaker wall near the boathouse, and then came out to the dock.

Sansa sighed. “What are _you_ doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in a tree?”

“That’s Bran.” Arya smacked Sansa on the back of the head. “Gendry’s still rowing. He won’t stop. I think he might be hypnotized.”

“Then you’d better keep up with him in case he runs into the ferry! It’s coming in fast!” Marg suggested, even though _fast_ was the opposite of the ferry’s speed.

“Oh, yeah. That’s not actually a dumbass point. Gendry!” Arya launched into a run again, and kicked up sand. “Gendry! Stop!”

Young love. Or whatever _that_ was.

The ferry finally, _finally_ got close enough for a crewman to throw an anchor rope over to the dock. She didn’t wait for him to hop over, running herself to wind the rope around the post thingy. It slipped off immediately into the water, and the ferry bumped the dock. Oh well.

The crewman glared at her as he fixed the rope, and then he jumped back to the ferry to press a button that lowered a gangplank. She saw a much larger one that would get lowered for cars to get off, but since that wasn’t the case here, she assumed the six white horses would use the passenger walkway.

“Girls! Come on, the horses are here!” She called.

Myrcy and Sansa joined her to watch. There was some movement, but no horses appeared. She thought she could hear whinnying from inside.

A figure appeared, a tall, bulging shadow against the dim light of the ferry doorway.

It came out, down the gangway, striding along like some majestic centaur.

It was…a man.

A _man_.

Oh, he was glorious. Maybe a whole foot taller than her, huge muscles, a grungy tee shirt stained with horse…he was absolutely spectacular.

He extended a hand. “My dad says you’re as nuts as your Grandmother. I didn’t believe it until today.”

Marg grinned. “Huhhngnn.”

“Dickon Tarly.” He thrust his hand further toward her. _Thrust_.

“Mmhhmm…ahem…yeah, yes. Margaery. Tyrell. Margaery Tyrell of Tyrell Hotels and Enterprises Limited and Unlimited.” She took his hand, and it was warm and rough like sandpaper. She wanted it _everywhere_.

Dickon Tarly grimaced. “Ah, man, don’t go fallin’ in love with me! They all do that. Come on.”

Marg blinked. Her grin faded. She stood as tall as her shortness would allow and thrust her boobs out as far as they would go. _Thrust_. He looked at them, because of course.

“Don’t you go falling in love with _me_ , Dickon Tarly. They all do that. It’s boring.” She challenged with her words _and_ her eyebrows. Take that.

He stood even taller and looked off into the boring distance like Sansa’s emo cousin. But he swallowed. He had no chance when faced with the majesty of her boobs. “Yeah, whatever. Where do you want the horses?”

“The blue boathouse about five minutes down the beach. To the right off the dock. But we’re going to need them to tow a crate out of the water on the other side of the island. Meet us at dawn,” she said very casually, then turned and swayed away, making sure she bent to retrieve Sansa’s notebook and Myrcy’s veil so Dickon Tarly could also admire her ass.

“Hey, don’t you go thinkin’ about me tonight! It’s boring,” he shouted after her.

She had won. “Don’t worry, I won’t have to. I’ll be there in your dreams wearing only a horse blanket!”

“Ah, fuck.” He muttered.

“Not fair not fair not _fair_!” Sansa wailed. “I’m the one in need of great love!”

“Shut up, Sansa! I’m the one who’s going to die alone!” Myrcy cried.

They both ran ahead of Marg on the sand, but Marg…she swayed off until there was no more light.

Dickon Tarly might be _almost_ as beautiful as Hot Uncle Jaime. Almost. She was in _trouble_.

 

 


	9. In Which There is a Negotiation, a Confrontation, and a Re-evaluation

 

Tyrion paced in the middle of the narrow dirt road near Tysha’s parked car. It remained where they had first abandoned it, full of chicken feathers and books. His phone was in one hand, his thumb hovering over the call icon. He was going to do it. He was going to marry Tysha as soon as possible, hopefully that day. At least before they left Tarth. No one could catch wind of this before it was done, or he’d risk Tywin finding out. He’d wait to tell anyone until after Jaime’s surprise wedding. Months after. Maybe a year.

It was just dawn, a gorgeous purple light appearing over the sea. He’d snuck out of Selwyn’s huge house, Tysha’s soft breathing like a little kitten ruffling the duvet. He’d stared at her for quite some time, feeling resolved about his plan. He’d decided to take action.

He tapped the call icon and waited to hear his assistant’s voice. It was so early that it might take Pod a few minutes to answer, and Tyrion felt genuinely rueful that he was probably going to have to leave Pod behind when he severed all ties with Tywin. He’d at least have to find Pod a decent job first.

A sleep-thick voice answered. “Mr. Lannister? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is wonderful, Pod. Sorry to wake you, but it’s urgent. I need things.” Tyrion rushed through it, elated and nervous at the same time.

Pod cleared his throat, and Tyrion could picture him standing taller. “Yes, ser. Of course. Um…where are you?”

“Tarth.”

“Tarth. The island of Tarth?” Pod sounded shocked. “Are there any pubs there?”

“I don’t need pubs anymore, Pod. I’ve got love. Shut up.” Tyrion grimaced at how much he was starting to sound like his brother. Or worse, like Willas Tyrell. “I need my tux. And Jaime’s tux. Their house key is in the lower left chicken apartment in the backyard. Oh shit, he’s got their room all locked up, too…fine, get his old tux from storage at Father’s. If anyone asks, it’s for a charity banquet.”

Sounds of pencil scribbles filtered through the phone. “Yes, ser. And you want me to send them to Tarth?”

“No, Pod, I want you to  _ bring _ them to Tarth. Yourself. As soon as possible and preferably before nightfall. Requisition the chopper.”

“Yes, ser. Do you need anything else?” Pod was already typing judging by the keyboard clicks.

“A marriage license.” Tyrion waited. And waited.

“For yourself?” The glee was apparent in Pod’s voice, though he rushed on in a concerned tone, “Don’t you have to get that yourself? Sign something?”

“Just make it happen! Go under the radar! Order it online from the Quiet-Aisle Twenty-Four Hour Sept. I don’t care, just get one that’s legal.” Tyrion felt itchy about it all. He wanted it  _ done _ and for Tysha to be his.

“Ye…yes, ser. I’ll try my best.”

“You always do, Pod. You always do. And hurry!” Tyrion ended the call. He’d give Pod a huge bonus later, and possibly all of his liquor.

He turned to watch the sunrise. As his eyes traced the shifting bands of lights, he spotted movement down on the beach. Faintly, as the light hadn’t quite hit the sand yet, he could make out several people. No, three…four people. And horses. They soon began to glow in the escalating light, six pure white stallions, and they were towing an enormous crate up onto the beach.

Three of the figures were the girls, because of course they were. The fourth was a giant of a man, taller even than Jaime, and broader. He’d never seen that man before, but he must a friend of the girls even though he didn’t think they had any other friends but themselves and adjacent family members.

He did not have time to learn precisely  _ why _ they were towing a giant crate onto a beach, or where they’d found horses, or why all this was happening at dawn, nor did he particularly care. He had a wedding to arrange.

The walk to the barn was short but brisk. The bar on the door was a bit too high for his reach, so he had to find an old egg crate to stand on. The door swung open with only a low creak, and the sounds of various slowly-waking animals hit him. And their smells. A little ass let out a lazy hee-haw like a yawn, and the chickens started bawking.

He intended to leave a note for Septon Edric. He was therefore truly surprised to see the young man rise sleepily from a cot in the corner next to his egg-crate desk.

“Septon?” he called. “You’re  _ living _ here, too?  _ Why _ ?”

Septon Edric rubbed his eyes and tugged his tee shirt down. He looked even younger without the vestment. “It’s a bit far to the Septonage. Sometimes I stay here.”

Tyrion didn’t know whether to laugh or gently tell Edric that Selwyn would almost certainly put him up at the house. At least he could make his request worthwhile. “What does your sept need the most, Edric?”

“Well…window glazing for the mould problem, but Mr. Tarth is so kindly taking care of that.” Edric’s eyes were guileless even in the dim light filtering through a loft window.

“Second-most then?”

“Well…the roof is a bit leaky…” Edric scratched the back of his neck, probably from the hay.

“If I told you your sept would have an entirely new roof by next month, would you agree to a favor for me?” Tyrion prodded.

Edric sat bolt upright. “Well…that depends, but I would be amenable.”

“If I brought you a valid marriage license, say, by tonight, would you officiate my wedding?”

Edric nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Though you needn’t bring the license so soon. The sept  _ does  _ have an opening next weekend, but—”

“No Edric, I mean I want to give you the license tonight so you can marry us,  _ tonight _ .”

“Tonight! That’s highly irregular!” Edric looked appalled.

“A whole. New. Roof. Just think! And it’s not complicated. No guests, no fanfare. Just vows and whatever it is you do.” Tyrion would win this, he felt it.

“You have to have a witness. This isn’t the  _ Quiet Isle _ !” Edric snorted.

Tyrion had planned to ask Jaime, hence the tux, and of course Brienne would be there because Jaime wouldn’t think otherwise. He was going to surprise Tysha with the whole thing, risk it all. It was worth it. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Well…” Edric scratched his scalp with both hands. “We really  _ do _ need a new roof.”

“Excellent!” Tyrion clapped his hands, making the chickens bawk again. “Be here tonight, maybe ten?”

“I’m sure that with the mould problem and the new roof, the only thing that would prevent me from concentrating on your irregular emergency wedding is my concern over the plumbing in the Fountain of the Seven.” Septon Storm dragged his toe through the dirt and hay of the barn floor before somehow managing to glance  _ up _ at Tyrion.

Edric should have been a negotiator, not a septon. “Fine, fine, consider it done!” Tyrion agreed. “As long as I get my wedding and it’s  _ legal _ .”

Septon Storm nodded vigorously. “Of course, Mr. Lannister. Thank you, Mr. Lannister.”

Tyrion backed out of the barn amid effusive expressions of gratitude and animal complaints. He had to get to town somehow and get more rings, maybe get a haircut somewhere. It was all going to be okay. It  _ was _ .

 

* * *

 

Jaime bent down a little to rub his right knee. It occasionally acted up, and this was one of those occasions. He wasn’t all that surprised considering the intense activity it had endured, and he didn’t just mean the run out to the waterfall. He’d have to work it more strictly. He had a status of being  _ strong enough _ to maintain, and he’d definitely succeeded more than once last night.

They’d slept late, but Brienne had made sure that Tommen had breakfast ready and wouldn’t have to do it himself. It had been a very lazy morning, the girls out doing things he probably didn’t want to know about, and Tom off in the barn with Selwyn and the animals. He and Brienne had enjoyed an…enthusiastic, night. By the time he’d remembered about the languishing clue in the loft, the barn was occupied. It would have to wait, even though he was itching to complete the scavenger hunt so he wouldn’t have to pretend he didn’t  _ know _ .

It was only then that his thoughts cleared enough to worry.

Had it been too much? For the baby? What if they’d been too  _ vigorous _ ? Was being held up against a wall a safe position? He’d have to read everything he could find about the issue.

He watched Brienne like Margaery Tyrell tended to watch him. She moved about the kitchen, putting frozen pizzas in the oven for lunch and tossing bagged salad. He should learn to one-handed cook. They should eat better. For the baby.

“Stop staring at me,” she grumbled, but she didn’t even look irritated.

She looked luminous. Surely he wasn’t imagining how she glowed? It was spectacular. He stared at her stomach even though he knew there wasn’t anything different to see. Maybe he should pad the edges of the counters. He’d never been  _ this _ anxious about something that made him  _ this  _ happy!

“Never,” he said.

The sound of a helicopter disrupted the peace. He could tell it passed overheard, heading to the tiny airport.

“It’s late in the season for the chopper tours of the Storm Lands,” Brienne commented.

“Maybe it’s Margaery revisiting her plunge of doom.” He chuckled. “Can I help with that?”

“With what? Setting a bottle of Andal Dressing on the counter? I think I can manage.” She smiled at him though.

A second chopper passed by.

Brienne furrowed her brows. “Now that’s really odd.”

Their eyes met. Surely it couldn’t be related to them, or their many adjacent humans?  _ Surely _ .

“Jaime, can you see if the girls are out on the beach?” She sounded exhaustedly concerned. That certainly couldn’t be good for the baby.

He stepped out on the porch, braced himself on the rail, and squinted. He couldn’t see anyone on the sand or the dock, but there  _ was _ Margaery’s enormous shipping crate, the top panel pried off and leaning against a side. The sand all around it was kicked up and ragged. How in the world had they dragged it from the water? He would never understand their methods.

Back in the kitchen, he shook his head. “That weird crate is up on the beach, but no people.”

She outright grimaced. “I don’t like this. Something insane is brewing.”

“Isn’t is always?” He wanted to laugh, but the last time the girls had planned something, it had resulted in a flash mob and the closure of Baelor’s Square for two days. And his engagement, which effectively canceled out all negatives. “We’ll deal with the girls. There’s still a good stretch of summer ahead of us, and I’m not going to waste it constantly worrying about their schemes. Based on past events, we’ll know them when we see them, and they mean well. I just want to enjoy how peaceful it is here, and of course…you.”

“Haven’t you had your fill yet?” she laughed.

“Never.” He sauntered around the counter and backed her into the refrigerator. “Have you?”

She stared at his mouth. “Never.”

He snogged the living daylights out of her even though the fridge’s high-pitched hum was making his ear buzz. He lifted his head, still nipping at her bottom lip a little. “You should know that I will love you even in tax season.”

She furrowed her brow and smiled at the same time. “What are you talking about? The taxes are long done.”

He laughed, loudly and heartily even though he was distracted from his chest grazing hers. “Never mind.”

She tugged on his earlobe. “I’m kidding. I know. I will love you even when your father’s paid a visit and you’re at your worst.”

He stole one more kiss. “Then it won’t be so bad. At least he doesn’t care one whit about Tarth. We won’t have to deal with him for a long while.”

She seemed introspective for a moment. “Oh gods, what if it’s the about the hotel?”

“What? What hotel?” He had no idea where her mind had gone.

“The Tyrell’s hotel. Remember Olenna’s text? She didn’t reveal anything outright, but she said she sent Loras to spy on Margaery and to  _ scout _ . What would she need a scout for apart from land? She asked what sort of people like Tarth.” She stepped away from him and paced to the kitchen island, a grimace twisting her kiss-swollen lips.

Jaime adopted a grimace to match hers. “Olenna Tyrell  _ cannot _ build a hotel on this island. She’ll ruin it. I won’t allow it, I’ll…damn it I can’t just buy the island, but I can bribe the representative or something.”

“Jaime, we do  _ not _ bribe people. It’s entirely unethical.” Her grimace began to lift however, her little fond smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

“Even to save Tarth?”

She hesitated too long. “It’s a good thing we wouldn’t have to. My father is the representative.”

“What? He’s never in town for session?” How Jaime had missed this fact was beyond him. It wasn’t like he didn’t pay attention.

“My father proxy votes, because he hates leaving Tarth. He’s also the mayor, the community warden, and the head of the tourism committee.” Brienne sighed and looked over at him. “I have to tell you something. I was going to last night, but…”

He bit his lip. He couldn’t help himself. “Yes,  _ but _ .” Then he wondered if her patience for the scavenger hunt had faded and she was  _ going to tell him _ . Thank the gods.

“Stop it.”

“No.” He winked at her.

She sucked in a breath, about to speak her beautiful revelation, when the sound of a motorbike sputtered in from outside.

He clenched his fists. Not now! “For fuck’s sake.”

She went to the front window. “Someone’s here, but I don’t know him.”

Jaime joined her, his own brow furrowing mightily. “It’s Podrick Payne! I’d recognize that ancient bike anywhere.”

She glanced at him. “Tyrion’s assistant?”

“Yes. What in the world?” Jaime opened the door and stood on the porch.

Pod had always been overly nice and way too good for Tyrion, and Jaime thought that in the most loving way possible. Tyrion had tried hard to corrupt poor Podrick’s sensibilities, but the lad had remained stalwart. He dismounted from his vintage war-era bike that was hardly more than a scooter, rusty and squeaky. 

One of those helicopters had been a Lannister chopper, Jaime realized. This must be Tyrion’s doing.

Pod approached. “Hullo, Mr. Lannister. Is Mr. Lannister…the other Mr. Lannister I mean, around? He sent for me.”

Jaime sighed. “Did he, indeed. Might I ask why?”

Pod’s eyes went wide, and he shuffled his feet. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me  _ not _ to tell you, but he seemed like he wouldn’t  _ want _ me to tell you. Or anyone.”

Brienne stepped out to join them on the porch. Podrick looked over at her, then up…way up. His brows rose. “Oh wow! It’s really you!”

Jaime glanced at her. She bloomed red and blinked too much, as she always did when someone recognized her. “I suppose so,” she said.

Pod extended his hand eagerly. “I’m Podrick Payne. I work for Tyrion, and I  _ love _ your books. Really, I mean…they’re so meaningful!”

Jaime stared at Pod. Was he… _ a fan _ ? This couldn’t be. They had no energy for another fan on this island, and the girls were sure to rope him into whatever they were doing. Pod was gullible.

Brienne adopted the smile she used in the presence of her fans. “Thank you, Mr. Payne. It’s always lovely to meet someone who has enjoyed my work.”

“Oh, it’s Pod! Everyone calls me Pod. I’m no mister,” he chuckled.

“Everyone deserves to be treated with respect. Pod.” She smiled.

The poor boy flushed almost like Brienne did. “Well, I’d love to ask you about chapter 8 sometime, but Mr. Tyrion said he needed me urgently. I’d better find him and hope I can talk to you later.”

“Tyrion’s next door, Pod. We rented this house, but he’s staying with Brienne’s father in the Tarth manor. Just over there,” Jaime pointed.

“Thanks, Mr….Jaime? That doesn’t sound right. Thanks.” Pod nodded at him, and beamed at Brienne before going to his motorbike and wheeling it down the road toward Selwyn’s.

“That’s the second suspicious thing of the day,” Jaime muttered.

“At least it explains one of the choppers,” she replied.

He turned to her. “Now, what were you going to tell me?” He was so tired of waiting.

A swift breeze swept in to ruffle her hair. She was about to speak  _ again _ when a rumble crept up the road.

Jaime kicked a post on the porch. “Ouch.”

The only taxi on Tarth putted down the road, skillfully circling Tysha’s parked car and the various objects still strewn everywhere. It halted in front of their house.

“It can’t be…” Brienne whispered.

It was. An elegant hand tipped Byrt the driver, and out stepped Olenna Tyrell. She wore an expertly tailored rose-colored pantsuit with a leopard scarf wound around her hair.

She approached them with a smarmy smirk lurking at the corner of her mouth. Jaime wondered if she had actually cloned herself to form Margaery, they were so much alike.

“Good afternoon. What a…quaint little place this is. I would recommend adding at least three taxis.” Olenna stepped onto the porch and behaved as if she were taller than them by a foot.

Jaime was dismayed. Clearly, Brienne had been right about the hotel speculation, or why else would Olenna have arrived herself? Brienne radiated tension next to him.

For the third time, she opened her mouth to speak, but then two figures streaked across the grass and clomped, panting, onto the front of the porch. They sounded like a herd of inept tap dancers. Those horseshoes for men were beyond annoying. Loras and Renly gasped as if they’d run a marathon.

“Grandmother! You’re early! I wasn’t prepared!” Loras spit out.

“It’s always better to be early than late. It catches people off guard.” Olenna turned to pat her grandson’s disheveled hair.

“I’m not off guard,” Brienne said, almost a warning in her tone. Jaime was surprised.

Olenna’s gaze snapped back. “I see.” She stared at them one at a time, assessing. “Do you remember not so long ago how I got you two together?”

“Yes,” they said at the same time.

Brienne went on. “We’ll never forget that. But there are limits.”

“Are there? I have no idea to what you are referring. I would like a cup of tea and some cheese.” Olenna waited, her hands covering the ball of her walking stick.

Brienne stepped back, waving Olenna inside. Her expression was odd, for once somewhat unreadable to Jaime. He should be concerned about the situation, but instead, he was distracted at how much he loved always learning new things about his wife.

He didn’t wait for Loras and Renly to clomp up steps, following Olenna inside where the pizza in the oven was clearly burning. Brienne rushed over and fanned the space with potholders. He went over to her and picked up a floppy cutting board to continue the fanning as she removed the pizzas and dumped them into the sink. They were almost completely black. If they wanted lunch, it would have to be at Selwyn’s. Why hadn’t the fire alarm gone off? Jaime made a mental note to test all fire alarms in all homes, even Tarth manor. Can’t have malfunctioning alarms with a baby around. 

“Flustered, dear?” Olenna commented.

Brienne did not look at her for a moment. She stood tall, tossed the potholders onto a counter, and swiveled on her heels to face her opponent. She looked like the Warrior with spectacular freckles.

“Olenna,” she began, and her tone was downright grave. “You are going to remind us several more times that you brought us together, as a precursor to claim that we owe you. You are going to paint your benevolence as leverage. Just to be clear, we will forever be genuinely grateful to you for engineering our…union. We truly are, but we do not owe you.  _ I _ do not owe you. I know why you’re here, and it’s not going to happen. I’m sorry you came all this way. The only cheese we have is burnt onto that pizza.”

Olenna’s expression remained superficially friendly, but there was edge to it. “That’s unfortunate. Yet I do not give up easily. This negotiation hasn’t even begun, as you my dear, are not my opponent.” Olenna smile should be terrifying, and probably was to most, but he was used to Tywin. He just shrugged.

“I am,” Brienne stated, clearly and with perfect enunciation.

“No, that would be the representative. I see you hadn’t quite worked all this out yet.” Olenna settled onto a stool at the kitchen island, as if she had all day.

“I told you this place was great!” Loras proclaimed. “The beach is terrific.”

Jaime glared at Loras, an effective maneuver judging by the boy’s sudden pallor. “So you  _ were  _ scouting. You’re lucky I only just found out, or you’d be bobbing about in the sea in that giant crate.”

“Don’t threaten my grandson, however stupid his attire might be.” Olenna laughed, but even that was meant to be a threat.

“Don’t threaten Brienne’s island,” he retorted.

Olenna leaned forward. “And how would the presence of a beautiful Tyrell resort  _ threaten _ ? It would boost the economy, bring interest and trade. It would only help the people here, not harm them.”

“And that claim only serves to demonstrate how little you understand those outside your circle,” Brienne said, her voice confident and patient. “The people of Tarth don’t want the people of King’s Landing or anywhere else to invade this place. It’s stood strong for a thousand years. It will outlast even you. I hear Estermont is very open to investment.”

Olenna nodded. “I see. I had hoped for your support when I approach the representative, but never fear. I will still invite you to my hotel’s grand opening.” She turned to Loras. “Did you do your research, boy?”

“Yes, Grandmother.” Loras seemed nervous.

“And did you arrange the meeting with the representative?”

Loras swallowed thickly. “Well…”

“Either you did or you didn’t.” Olenna rolled her eyes. Normally, Jaime would have been amused.

“It’s Selwyn Tarth. He’s the representative,” Loras mumbled. “He wasn’t interested.”

Olenna’s gaze snapped back to Brienne once again. “Ah. There are other ways.”

“There aren’t,” Brienne added. She closed her eyes in what he knew was exasperation. They popped open even brighter. “My father represents this island, because he owns this island. Well,  _ we _ own the island. We are  _ the _ Tarths of Tarth, and  _ the _ Tarths of Tarth are grandfathered into ownership of all of Tarth in perpetuity. You cannot build a hotel here if the Tarths don’t want you to. I am a Tarth, of  _ the  _ Tarths of Tarth, and I don’t. I’m sorry, Olenna. You really should try Estermont.”

Jaime gaped at his wife. He had known she was practically a queen, but that was metaphorical! He didn’t know she was the heiress of this entire bloody island! He covered his shock quickly. It wouldn’t do for Olenna to think he hadn’t known. Why hadn’t he known?!?

Fortunately, she was focused on Brienne. They silently faced off, neither budging.

Finally, Olenna’s tight lips split into a wide smile that seemed genuine. “Good for you. I would expect nothing less, though I must admit that  _ I _ am the one caught off guard. That doesn’t happen often.”

Brienne exhaled just enough to relieve the tension in her stance. “I’m glad you understand. If you were me, I think you would feel the same.”

Olenna waved her hand. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be talking to me right now.” She pointed at Jaime. “I’d be upstairs with that one and no clothes.”

Brienne waited a moment. “I was. Recently.”

Jaime thought he might fall over again, but there was no little ass to blame.

“Ew!” Loras and Renly exclaimed and trotted to the other side of the kitchen.

Olenna smirked. “When I met you, you were barely audible across a table. If you’ve come this far, Jaime clearly knows what he’s doing in the upstairs department. Congratulations.”

Jaime gaped again, at Brienne then Olenna. “I’m  _ right here _ !” And yes, he  _ did _ know what he was doing, not that he wanted Olenna to know that.

“So you are.” Olenna turned to him. “And I did not miss how hot and bothered you became as she won this little battle. I will depart now so you can act on your impulses. It will be yet another thing to add to my future leverage.”

Jaime wasn’t about to argue with that, even though he wanted to tell her to mind her own business. And he was still distracted by the three-fold issue of Brienne being an heiress, Brienne being pregnant, and Brienne being at her most fuckable.

“Loras, research Estermont.” Olenna rose from the stool and moved toward the door.

“Yes, Grandmother.” He cantered out after her. Renly followed at a trot.

“Olenna,” Brienne called. “There was a wind just before you arrived. That usually means it’s going to pick up, and the airport will close. Make sure it’s safe to fly before you start the chopper.”

Olenna smiled without a trace of her former stubbornness. “Thank you, dear. I will. Perhaps such a volatile location would not be ideal for a genteel resort.”

“I’m happy we agree,” Brienne laughed. 

The front door burst open.

Jaime groaned. Sometimes, it was just  _ too much _ .

It was Arya Stark, painted like a hideous green animal with a half-melted face. “Gendry is stuck! He’s going to float out to Pentos and meet some kind of ginger fire priestess and never speak to me again! Help!”

And then it was Willas. He rushed in trailing hay and blood as he clutched his hand. “A little ass bit me because it hated my poetry and Sansa wouldn’t speak to me, and…hello Grandmother, what are you doing here? And I’m  _ bleeding _ ! Which is understandable because my heart has combusted and is now leaking from my body.”

Jaime looked at Brienne with abject longing. She looked at him, and he thought he saw in her eyes the same desire to run away to Volantis where no one would ever find them. He sighed. She nodded.

“You take Willas, I’ll take Gendry,” she said. He was going to object, but she held up her hand. “We’ll need the boat. It has to be me.”

“Fine. Text me,” he demanded.

“If there were a Tyrell hotel here, you could book a couple’s massage after you’ve resolved this nonsense.” Olenna smirked.

“No,” he and Brienne said, but he was afraid their eyes told a different story He wondered for a moment why a bleeding Tyrell was his problem and not Olenna’s. Or Willas’ own father. Or mother. But before he could make the suggestion, the matriarch and the hoofed two were out the door.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe this!” Marg shouted.

“It’s not going to happen. And it’s not even my fault this time!” Myrcy yelled.

“I should have let Willas poem at me! Now I’m an empty vessel of pain and no good words!” Sansa wailed.

“There’s no more time to get supplies,” Marg seethed. “Grandmother won’t let me use more resources. I can’t believe they sent  _ rose-colored _ sequins! What the fuck are we going to do with forty-thousand rose sequins?!?!?!”

“And the flowers!” Myrcy really was crying. “They’re all roses, and Brienne  _ hates _ roses!”

“What are we going to do with all these roses and no good flowers, and no time and no backup plan!” Marg threw herself on the huge bags of perfect de-thorned rose-colores roses. She began tearing into them, shredding the smooth petals and flinging them everywhere.

Myrcy joined her. It was cathartic to destroy things.

Sansa lay down on the barn floor with petals floating about her, like some dead princess.

“And did you see that tuxedo?” Marg screeched and clawed.

“It’s  _ brocade _ ,” Myrcy moaned. “And rose-colored.”

“Everything is rose-colored,” Sansa whisper-wailed, “like my former Willas-glasses.”

Marg abruptly stopped her shredding. “We’ve got to move forward and make this work. We can’t stop now. There  _ has _ to be a wedding in two days’ time! It is known.”

“It is known,” Myrcy and Sansa agreed.

“But  _ howwww _ !” Sansa continued.

Marg got up and began to shove the now-empty flower bags and the horrible sequins bags and the awful tuxedo bag into the barn corner. Myrcy went to help her cover it all with a tarp. Sansa grabbed the final unopened bag and ripped it.

“Your Grandmother’s shipping intern got one thing right,” she said. “Look, the tiny bowties!”

Myrcy wanted to cry. The bag of various animal bowties just served to remind of what could have been.  _ Should _ have been. Epic.

Sansa lurched up and moved like a drunk fairy from one little ass to the next, putting a stretchy bowtie around each of their necks. She didn’t touch the chickens.

“They look…beautiful…” she sniffled.

Myrcy hyper-focused. “This island is beautiful. The whole thing! Maybe that’s our backup. Maybe we don’t need flowers from somewhere else. We can go collect them and use greenery. Make it all about Tarth. That’s what they did in the ancient days when King Something the Eleventeenth of Tarth married what’sherface!”

“You might be onto something, Myrcy!” Marg exclaimed. “Good thinking.”

“The Oyster Shack is pretty famous here. We could get food from there,” Sansa suggested in as normal a tone as she ever had.

“Yes!” Myrcy agreed, excited to go down to the Shack and see…the food.

Sansa stumbled close, gripping each of their shoulders. “I can write a song for the ceremony. An original song about love lost and love gained, and mourning ginger girls and tall blonde warrior queens and hot men.”

“Take the ginger girls out and it’s perfect.” Marg nodded, but glared at Sansa. “We’re still running out of time though. We need to delegate tasks. Myrcy, you can order the food since you know the menu best. Sansa, write your song and get all the other music together. I’ll go get the horses to help gather tree branches and hay bales, and we can make stuff from the greenery tonight. This  _ will _ work! Agreed?”

“Agreed!” Myrcy and Sansa said.

“But what if the ginger girls are just ghosts in the background?” Sansa wailed.

 

* * *

 

“Do you remember where you saw him from shore?” Brienne asked Arya who stood far too precariously on the starboard bench. The girl refused to stand still, so Brienne had to tie a rope to her waist just to prevent her from going overboard.

There was also quite a lot of guilt that she had failed to account for Arya the night before. Did Starks  _ ever _ just stay where they were supposed to? That was probably why Catelyn and Ned had sent the girls to Tarth for the summer, to make them someone else’s responsibility.

Arya had been gallivanting around the island all night, chasing Gendry’s boat. He’d circumnavigated it three times. Brienne was almost impressed.

She forced herself to pay attention to the current, the wind’s direction, the height of the gulls above the water, telling her how to steer the boat. The wind was really growing in force from the morning.

They passed the old boathouse on the eastern side. It needed a new paint job, and she realized that she had the power to actually make that happen. Not that her father was negligent. He just preferred to leave things the way they were. If he hadn’t, she would have learned of their state as bloody island owners long ago. Still, some of the island’s structures  _ could  _ use a coat of paint and new gravel on some of the roads

She still couldn’t believe it. How could she, when she’d grown up on Tarth, and nobody had ever said anything? Was it such a given? Tarthians  _ were _ a stoic, closed-lip bunch, but this?

Not that she’d spoken to many people before moving to King’s Landing. Or after. Not until she’d met Jaime had she actually been forced to speak words to humans every single day. It was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Obviously.

She hated that Jaime had found out at the same time as Olenna. That’s not at all what she’d wanted. She never kept secrets from him. Well, except for the pregnancy, but that wasn’t a  _ secret.  _ She  _ was _ telling him. Slowly.

She groaned and regretted everything. When they returned, she would just take Jaime to the final clue spot, and they could celebrate.

Were those horses on the shore by the boathouse? What in the world? To her knowledge, the only horses left on Tarth were Old Man Bryndle’s two ancient mares, and of course, the little asses if they counted. But what did she know. Nothing!

“There he is!” Arya jumped up and down, almost tumbling into the water.

Brienne jerked her waist-rope back. “Where?”

“Those rocks out there! He’s all washed-up.”

Jaime would make a joke about that. Gods, she missed him.

“Okay, I’ll get us close, then you throw him the rope. Tie the extra lifejacket to it. We’ll have to force the rowboat out, and he can’t be in it when that happens. Get him on board.” Brienne was pleased that her sailing prowess had not waned.

She maneuvered them as close to the rocks as was safe, keeping a grip on Arya despite the constant resistance.

“Gendry! Stay alive! I’m coming to slap you!” Arya called.

A head popped up from the rowboat, a very pale and squinting Gendry. “Oh hey, ahoy! Good thing, ‘cause I’m outta protein bars. Only had like twenty.”

Brienne frowned, raising her voice above the wind. “You ate twenty protein bars? That’s not healthy.”

“Yeah, I puked a lot!” He called.

“Dumbass!”

“Language!”

“Sorry, Aunt Brienne.”

Brienne furled one of the sails to keep them steady. She couldn’t anchor at that depth. “We’re close enough. Throw the rope. Gendry? Tie the rope aft, put on the lifejacket, then you’ll have to come over here, use the rope so you don’t get caught in the current, okay.”

“Yeah, cool. Do it.” Gendry sort of head-banged. The poor boy was likely semi-delirious at this point.

Arya threw quite well, and Gendry began to secure the rope.

“Arya, if the boat moves too much, or Gendry starts to struggle, I’m going in the water to get him. Hold the wheel as I’ve secured it. Don’t let it slip, understand?” She glared at Arya with maternal ferocity.

“I understand. Thank you for saving him,” Arya said, nicely for once.

“That’s apparently what I do.” Brienne smiled.

Gendry had the jacket on and jumped into the water, fortunately still warm at this time of day.

He wasn’t weak enough to lose his grip, Brienne was relieved to see. Arya held her hand out for him, and he soon climbed into the sailboat with a relieved expression.

“Gods, I rowed for like twelve hours. Must be a record! Really thirsty though.” He grinned at them both.

Brienne nodded and prepared to turn so the rowboat would dislodge from the rocks. “There’s water in the cabin below. You should rest until we dock.”

“Yeah, cool. Good times.”

“You dumbass! I hate you! Sorry.” Arya stomped her foot. “I told you not to row off into the wild!”

“Aw, you don’t hate me, Arie.” Gendry winked.

Brienne looked away, focusing on the boats. She was  _ not _ having anything to do with this weird relationship.

“I told you not to call me Arie!”

“Did you miss me, Arie?”

“I hate you.” Arya punched him in the shoulder and then snogged the absolute daylights out of him.

Brienne wanted to gag. Arya seemed twelve to her, not much older than Tommen, but she was seventeen. She just behaved like a wild circus runaway.

She missed Jaime. Glimpsing other people kiss made her miss him. Thinking about kissing made her miss him. Eating a sandwich made her miss him. She wondered when exactly they had become barnacles on each other, because she knew he hated being away from her as much as she did. It had been sometime after the stapled dress incident at Olenna Tyrell’s and the day she’d worn his sweatpants by accident when sneaking out of his window. He’d then decided to throw all of their sweatpants together and forget who owned what.

The rowboat fortunately came loose with ease, and she could sail around the island’s south side toward home. The wind really  _ was _ gaining. She looked out at the eastern sea, not surprised to find a very dark cloud formation just cresting the horizon. If the wind continued as it was, the storm would pass to the south, but if it changed, there would be terrible weather tomorrow. She would make sure the sailboat was properly secured in the little shelter near the dock.

At least she would be able to find Jaime when they returned, because surely Willas Tyrell’s bitten hand had been a faster bit of chaos than a boat rescue.

 

* * *

 

Jaime wanted to throttle Willas Tyrell. Which god had decided to punish him with the constant presence of a heartbroken whiny poet? It must be the Crone for refusing Olenna. Seriously, where were the Tyrell grandchildren's’ parents? Had anyone ever met them? Did they exist? Maybe Olenna had ordered clones from some secret lab in the basement of one of her hotels. 

He groaned at Willas’ constant whining. “No, you do not have ass scratch fever. That doesn’t exist, though if I catch you scratching your ass in my house, I’m putting you out to sea.”

“She wouldn’t  _ speak _ to me! How am I to win her back if she can’t bear to look at my face?!?!?” Willas shouted, rattling the glasses on the counter.

“Wear a mask?” Jaime suggested.

“It might impact my enunciation.” Willas shook his head.

“You might change your shirt. I highly recommend that.”

The boy clutched his still-duct-tape-bandaged chest. “I will remain one of the unwashed masses until Sansa deigns to grace me with a smile. I have vowed it.”

“You’re going to regret that. I promise you.” Jaime stood up from the kitchen stool.

It wasn’t easy trying to bandage a wound with one hand, but his only other option was to find Selwyn, and Selwyn was dealing with Tommen, a still-horny Ser Pounce, and a mewling Gatehouse Ami. If Selwyn went off with Willas,  _ he _ would have the cats. It wasn’t worth it.

So he managed. Willas was no longer bleeding, at least physically, and there was a lopsided but secure new bandage covering the disinfected little ass bite. It had barely broken skin. Willas just bled quite a lot.

“Why don’t you have a nap over at Selwyn’s? Refresh your thoughts and ready yourself for…wooing.” Jaime shrugged. Whatever. He just wanted to get away from Willas.

“Okay. I might require it even though I’m loathe to lose time I could be spending in song and poetry.” Willas sluggishly rose and dragged his feet as he left. “Thank you for the bandaging!” He called over his shoulder.

Jaime so wanted to hate Willas, but he couldn’t. He was  _ sick  _ of Willas, for sure, but the poor boy was just a pathetic blob. He couldn’t hate a blob.

He checked his phone. Brienne had texted him!

_ Found Gendry, all is well, he and Arya are being disgusting, yet it’s making me feel things by proxy. Not for Gendry. I miss you. _

His heart raced, because of course.  _ When ru back? Miss u. _

He didn’t even have patience to text with complete words.

_ An hour? Your grammar is appalling. _

_ Thnx, Stannis. _

_ Stannis wouldn’t ask you to wait upstairs. One would hope. _

Jaime bit his lip and she wasn’t even there.  _ Stop texting and boating. Safety first! No more Stannis, just upstairs. _

_ Yes, Ser Jaime. _

Oh gods, she was text flirting. It was too much. He would beg her to call him that  _ upstairs _ . It did things to him.

One hour. What was he supposed to do with himself for a whole hour?

The clue.

Finally!

He rushed out the door and headed to the barn, hoping that it was empty since the cats were supposed to be in Selwyn’s garage spitting at each with hormones flying. Even if it wasn’t, he’d just waltz right up to the loft without a word. He had no fucks to give.

Well…

Not the fed-up kind.

The barn was empty. And covered in pink rose petals. This wasn’t from the girls, he knew, because Myrcy knew that Brienne hated roses. She wouldn’t allow them near her favorite person. This was something else, and Jaime did not care. No fucks!

He climbed up to the loft and stared at the bales of hay, considering which of them would be most likely for the clue spot. The one where they’d had an amazing snog? The one that had been a nice, if itchy, head rest as they’d talked for hours? No. It would be the one where he’d ripped his shirt off to cover the prickly hay and bent her over it.  _ That  _ one.

The clue was tucked just under the plastic strap that held the bale together. He ripped it open.

 

_ When I was a girl, I dreamed of sunshine glinting on children’s hair, the future possible only in those dreams. _

_ The place where I dreamed is the gods-eye, ever watchful over me, my dreams, and the sea. _

_ Find where I rest on damp and dry and your hunt is ended. _

 

He didn’t know where the location might be, but that was where she wanted to  _ tell him _ . He wasn’t sure he would have seen it in the clue if he hadn’t already figured it out, but since he  _ did _ know, he could almost hear the mix of melancholy and hope in her words. She had never believed she would have the life she’d wanted. He felt a clenching in his heart that he was the one lucky enough to give it to her.

When she returned to the house, he would ask her to take him to the location, to get this done. Even though he’d loved it, he wanted her to know that he  _ knew _ , so they could be blissful about it together.

Then they would fuck.

Jaime moved toward the ladder. It was much harder to climb down than to get up because of his hand. He tucked the clue into his pocket.

The barn door slid open just enough to let a man inside. A  _ septon _ . He was wearing the garb and speaking on a phone.

“Yes, High Septon. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I just had to be certain that a last-minute internet license from the Quiet Aisle would be valid here. Thank you for your wise counsel.” The septon ended the call and halted, staring at the rose petals on the floor. “I hate this place,” he muttered.

Jaime was about to call out so the septon wouldn’t be startled by his descent, but the door opened again.

Willas Tyrell. The current plague of Jaime’s existence.

“Septon! Wait!” Willas called out, even though the septon was still and three feet away.

The septon turned. “What can I do for you?”

Willas began to cry. Not big streams of fat poetry tears, but almost…real? He spoke softly. “I need help. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t because I am a horrible person. I’ve lost the greatest love in all of life, and I need her back. Really. Even if I just do taxes forever.”

Jaime was taken aback. Willas had  _ listened _ to him? But he was a blob!

The septon placed a hand on Willas’ shoulder. “I understand. It’s a noble pursuit to desire betterment. The first step is confession.”

Jaime stiffened. Oh no…

“What must I do?” Willas pleaded.

“Come, my son, and sit with me,” said the septon, who couldn’t be more than two years older than Willas. He led Willas to that weird desk in the far corner. “Confess all your sins, every one you can remember, and you will be guided toward absolution. Only by purging ourselves of hate can we deserve love.”

“I see now why my sister is going to be a septa. This makes perfect sense!” Willas sagged onto a bale of hay as the little asses, who were for some reason wearing bow ties, made disgruntled noises around him. The chickens squawked.

The septon paused, out of Jaime’s sight. “Yes, well…your sister? Let’s begin with her. Now understand, this is a sacred and confidential confession. No one will ever know the sins you expunge today. I hereby begin a pact between you and the gods.”

Well, fuck.

Willas began spilling his guts. Jaime tuned it out, trying to respect the boy’s privacy, but what was he supposed to do? He considered fake-yawning very loudly and feigning that he’d fallen asleep up in the loft. That might work. He’d have to give it a few minutes for authenticity.

He moved as silently as he was able, any noise easily covered by the listless animals below. He sat against the bale of hay used for talking and leaned his head back. The Snogging bale and the Fucking bale were off limits or he’d start daydreaming about her skin.

“…and then I wasted three thousand silver lions on rare rosewood, because my woodburning skills weren’t yet beyond amateur, and the direwolf wasn’t coming out right over and over…”

Jaime closed his eyes. Soon, the daydreams faded into real dreams.

 

 


	10. In Which There is a Forbidden Encounter, a Secret Bro Club, and a Ded Septa

 

The Oyster Shack was crammed full of the dinner crowd. There were no open seats, and Myrcy could barely make her way to the counter. That one girl who was some sort of distant Tarth, but not even in like, the top ten Tarths of Tarths, popped gum and called out orders to the line.

Myrcy cleared her throat and choked a little since she was kind of out of breath. She had biked there  _ really _ fast.

Gum girl popped.

“Excuse me, but I’d like to place an order. A large order.” Myrcy shuffled her feet, feeling shy and small in all the noise.

Gum girl popped. “Yeah…we don’t take  _ orders _ like that. You gotta wait for a table.”

“Oh I know. I’ve been here almost every day for like months.” Myrcy tried to be bubblier so Gum Girl might not dismiss her as easily. “I mean I want to order food for a wedding.”

“Yeah…you’re not from here, are you? We don’t cater or do take-away. It’s all fresh, you know.”

Myrcy remembered how she’d gotten chowder delivered for Sansa. She stood as tall as she could. “It’s for Selwyn Tarth.  _ He _ wants to get some catering.”

Gum girl popped. “Yeah…sure, hon. He’d phone, you know?”

Myrcy wanted to stomp her foot, but that would be immature and counterproductive. What would Aunt Brienne do?

Better yet, what would Uncle Jaime do?

Even better, what would  _ Uncle Tyrion _ do? Buy the Oyster Shack.

Okay, back to Uncle Jaime. He would figure out how to leverage something the Oyster Shack wanted in order to get something  _ he _ wanted. The only thing Myrcy could think of that the Oyster Shack might want would be Grandfather Selwyn’s continued approval.

She frowned haughtily at Gum Girl and took her phone out of her hand-painted Quill-blue rucksack that matched the actual Quill-blue  _ and _ Aunt Brienne’s eyes  _ and _ the waters of Tarth. Take that, Gum Girl.

Grandfather Selwyn answered immediately. “It’s Myrcella! Hello there, little sapling! Do you need something?”

Oh  _ gods _ , she still teared up when he called her by that nickname. Lannisters didn’t have nicknames other than  _ moron _ or something. “Kind of yes definitely! I’m at the Oyster Shack, and I’m trying to get catering for the epic wedding in like two days, and  _ yes _ , we’ve got a backup plan because of the bad sequins, but the Shack won’t let me order anything. I said your name and everything!”

Selwyn grumbled. “Well now, that’s just about terrible. I don’t like to inconvenience anyone, but what’s the use of doing all these island things for all these island people if I can’t get Shack food on delivery?”

“Exactly!” Myrcy exclaimed. Loudly. A passing waitress dropped a plate.

“Hold the phone out, little sapling,” Selwyn commanded.

She did, and he waited a few seconds. “Tarthsley Tarth!” His booming voice pierced the entire Shack and shook the shelf of clam juice glasses.

A big shuffle sounded from kitchen, and the swinging door crashed against the wall. A huge blond guy rushed out, wiping greasy fingers on an ancient striped apron. “Selwyn! Where ya at! Chowder this time?”

Selwyn shouted through the phone. “Tarthsley, that there lovely little sapling is my granddaughter Now, I know you didn’t know about that ‘cause her and her brother just became my grandkids by the light of the silvery moon! Or last week...let’s just say I spawned full-grown grandkids from a lobster trap!” Selwyn chortled, shaking the row of ketchup bottles. “On this island, she’s my granddaughter now, and she needs food, boy! Get her food. Whatever she wants. I’ll get your papa that spot in the next regatta, you hear?”

“Yeseree, ser! Boy, pops is going to flip! Thank ya much, ser!” Tarthsley smacked the counter and sent a bowl of mints flying.

Selwyn chuckled. “Will that do, little sapling?”

“Oh yeah!” Myrcy shouted. “Awesome and epic!”

“Good, good. Come back to the big house when you’re done. Bring chowder for you and me and my grandson, Tom-boy. Ha! He’s not a girl! Come to think of it, better bring chowder for all those Tyrell boys, too. And your Uncles and the ladies. Don’t know where your two friends are. That Stark girl though, and the boy who look like Edric the septon who’s currently knocked out on the sofa from rowing too much. And that Podrick boy. And the old lady who’s trying to be scary. Ha! Oh, and two pilots. Not sure where you lot are finding all these oddbirds, but the manor house is full, and it’s a lark!”

“Will do, Grandfather Selwyn! I’ll be back soon.”

Myrcy ended the call and stared at Tarthsley. She forgot to ask who that Podrick boy or the scary lady was. Or why there were pilots at the big house. Oh well.

“So whatdya need, then?” he asked, taking a greasy pen from behind his ear and grabbing an order notepad.

“Well, for tonight, chowder and rolls for like…” she counted all the people on her fingers, “sixteen people? I don’t know. Make it twenty just in case.”

“Yeah, sure. Be about twenty minutes, yeah? You’re gonna need a whole pot. Well, if they’re all Tarths, we’ll make it two.”

“We are Tarths,,” she said with pride, because at that moment  _ she _ was a Tarth. Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister-Tarth. Lannister. “Okay, then I need food for a wedding in two days.”

Tarthsley wrinkled his brow. “ _ Two days _ ! Wow. That’s fast. Anyone I know?”

Myrcy grinned, super proud of her revelation. “Brienne Tarth. Yes, yes, I  _ know _ . It’s epic.”

“Wowza! Good ol’ Brienne! Man, Selwyn’s bustin’ a nut I bet! Everybody here knows she’s engaged to that hot guy, but like…cool!”

Myrcy leaned over the counter a little, as if telling a very important confidence. “The hot guy is  _ my uncle _ !”

“Oh  _ man _ , you’re like famous!” He looked over his shoulder at the Gum Girl who was still popping. “Hey Alyston! This gal is Selwyn’s step-granddaughter and the hot guy’s niece!”

Gum Girl’s gum bubble burst. “Oh gods, he’s  _ hot _ ! I gotta tell Trystane! He’s so jealous of hot guy’s calves! Trystane!” Gum Girl shouted to the back.

Myrcy went pale. Oh no, she could  _ not _ see Trystane just then. She had sand in her hair and chipped nail polish! And it was forbidden! By Marg and Sansa! They hated Trystane for being too beautiful or something!

He peeked his Dornishly handsome head out of the kitchen door. Oh gods…so beautiful. That guyliner…

Who was Marg to tell her she couldn’t  _ like _ a boy just for being Dornish? Who was Sansa?

Her very best sister-friends ever, that’s who. The opinions she trusted more than anyone ever. Except for Aunt Brienne’s. And Grandfather Selwyn’s. So if  _ they _ didn’t hate the idea of Trystane the Dornish chowder model, they would cancel out Marg and Sansa. That seemed logical. It would create an impasse. She’d need a tie-breaking vote. Tommen? Yes, Tommen. Would he hate Trystane? More likely, he wouldn’t care. Unless Trystane were a cat person. He didn’t look like a cat person. He looked a cat…a hot, hunter-y cat prowling in a humid jungle. Hot. Maybe she could get him to adopt a cat and then Tommen would vote for him. She’d done dumber things.

She smiled at Trystane the beautiful Dornish waiter. She could tell when he saw her, because his eyes went wide, and he smiled back. 

He smiled back!

Should she flutter her eyelids? No, when she’d practiced in the mirror, she looked like she was being stung by eyeball mosquitos.

In front of her, Tarthsley Tarth chuckled. “Oh boy, Alyston, you’ve really put your foot in it! Told ya he wasn’t into you!”

Gum Girl popped. “Shut up! Hey Trystane, this girl is hot guy’s niece! Maybe he has calf-building tips.”

Trystane let the kitchen door swing behind him, and it smacked him on the butt a little. He approached the counter. Her. He was just there across the counter. From her.

“Heh, hi, oh!” she said. She sounded demented.

“Helloooo,” he drawled, his voice low and Dornish, the smile still on his face. When did everything Dornish get so hot? Why was she thinking like Marg?

Tarthsley cleared his throat. “I’ll see how much food we can get together for that thing in two days, and put the chowder on. Trystane, why don’t ya keep her entertained, huh? She’s a celebrity!”

Tarthsley grabbed Gum Girl and hauled her in the back.

Trystane grinned. “And how would you like to be entertained?”

Ooh, he was so sassy! “Oh, um…I, I…I’m easily, entertained. I guess.”

Dammit. Maybe her mother was right and she  _ was _ super stupid. No, no she couldn’t think that way. Aunt Brienne thought she was smart! Even splitting the difference made her acceptably average!

“Then I will ask you a question, yes?” Trystane leaned on his elbows on the counter.

She didn’t even know to do with any of her limbs. She tried to casually lean against the gumball machine thing, but it almost fell over. She barely caught herself. “Haha, clumsy. L-o-l. What?”

He chuckled. “You are very cute.”

Her eyes widened like a sea turtle, bulgy and weird. “ _ What _ ? No way! You saw my friends. They’re gorg.”

“I saw  _ you _ ,” he insisted. “I saw you weeks ago. Your friends, they are okay I guess. Not very interesting. One too shy, one too bold. You are just right.”

“But… _ I’m shy _ !” She shouted. “And loud,” she whispered.

He chuckled, reaching his hand across the counter to brush a slim, tanned index finger just over the tip of hers. “You are not shy. You are just not very confident. Maybe you need someone to tell you that you’re cute.” He winked.

Well…the  _ nerve _ !

“You are very….Dornish!” she accused.

“I  _ am _ . I am the  _ most _ Dornish.” He leaned closer. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Probably not! I’m horrible at keeping secrets.”

“Oh, you will keep this one. I trust you.” He flashed a very sassy look!

Guh. “O…okay.”

“My name is Trystane, but here, I say I am Trystane Sand. That is not my name. Because I am…Trystane  _ Martell _ .”

Myrcy didn’t know her eyes could bulge out  _ that  _ much. “No!”

“Yes.” He sighed, looking so pained. She wanted to pat his hair like a weird mother bird to a birdling thing. He seemed so earnest as he spoke. “I do not want to be an heir! I do not want to deal with the politics and fighting. My father and his  _ plans.  _ So many voices telling me what to do.”

She could sympathize for real. “I know.”

“So I come here. I love the sea and fishes. Many kinds of fishes, and beautiful waters. And beautiful girls.” He looked straight at her into the depths of her womanly soul. The one she didn’t even know she had until right that very moment.

A terrible, horrible awareness crept over her. If Marg and Sansa’s objections had been so forceful just at the idea of  _ knowing _ Trystane the waiter, what would her family really think? The Martells hated the Lannisters  _ and _ the Baratheons! She didn’t really understand it all, but it was something about a Martell being sent to jail for epic fraud or whatever even though she might have been innocent, because her Grandfather did some kind of hostile takeover with her birth father. That was so much worse than her friends not liking Dornish boy band lookalikes!

“What is it?” Trystane asked.

She blinked. Of course the only boy she’d liked in  _ ages _ was absolutely forbidden!

“I…I’m Myrcy. Myrcella. Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister.” She waited, her grimace mighty and super sad.

He blinked, too. Stood up from the counter and stepped back. She expected him to be disgusted, to absolutely reject her, maybe spit at her feet and throw an oyster at her.

His brows rose just on the inside part, and sagged on the outside part. Oh, what soulful eyes! “It cannot be!”

“It cannot  _ is _ !” she wailed, just like Sansa. “You must hate me now!”

He stared at her and bit his lip. Just like Uncle Jaime did. But this was hot. “I do  _ not _ . Perhaps I should, for my blood is Martell. But I do not.”

“Well, I don’t hate you even though I’m a Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister!” She bit her lip, too. Maybe a little too hard. She tasted blood and it felt like it was swelling immediately. Great. “I’m just Myrcy. That’s all. Just Myrcy. I can even be a Tarth!”

“And I am Trystane. Just Trystane.”

It was too good to be true, that he might  _ like _ like her!  _ Her _ !!!!! “But it is forbidden!” She wailed.

He stared at her like she was some kind of juicy Dornish fruit. She suddenly  _ felt _ like some juicy Dornish fruit.

“Help,” she whispered, scrambling for any kind of bodily support, like the edge of the counter. There was bowl of sauce hanging out there. She put her hand right in it.

He leaned closer over the counter again, his eyes dark. “Yes. It is… _ forbidden. _ ”

She blinked like dust was in her eye. “Forbidden,” she whispered.

“Okay, awesome!” Tarthsley Tarth boomed out from the open kitchen door. “I can getcha like oysters and chips, and popcorn shrimp, and a bunch a bread for that wedding. You want it delivered to the manor?”

“Help!” she shouted to no one in particular.

 

* * *

 

Jaime stirred and sucked in a deep breath filled with hay dust and barn animal. And her. She was  _ there _ . He knew. He always knew.

He blinked to clear his eyes, and there she was, sitting against the snogging bale and watching him. She smiled. He could see the blue of her eyes even in the fading light streaming in from the loft window.

“I fell asleep,” he stated the obvious.

“I know. You went missing.” She slid her phone into her jeans pocket.

“You don’t seem concerned.” He teased. “I could have been lost in the woods!”

She averted her eyes, and he could tell that she was blushing. “I will admit to a momentary stupid panic when you didn’t reply to my text after I got back to the house. I used that phone tracker app to find you.”

“Hey! We’re only supposed to use that spy on the children.” He laughed though, knowing what was coming. He sat up against the talking bale.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never tracked me with it,” she dared.

“I can’t. Not even going to try.” He glanced out the loft window, judging it to be around seven. “Wow, I slept way too long. Surely you’ve been back for ages.”

Her look was so fond, he wanted reach out for her, but he waited. If they touched, he didn’t think there would be much talking, and he desperately wanted to talk. About several things.

She glanced at her lap where her fingers were lazily twisting together. “I got back around three. That poor Gendry boy was starving and feeling pretty ill, so I parked him at Dad’s with Arya. Dad was applying some kind of grapeberry muscle rub to him. It’s probably forty-proof alcohol. I didn’t ask. Once I found you, you were sleeping so peacefully. I figured you needed it. I almost joined you, but I had to eat, too.”

Of course she did. The  _ baby _ .

“But you’re back,” he said.

“Yes, I’m back.” She watched him. “Tyrion asked me to get you.”

He smirked. “You don’t look like you’re getting me. You look like you’re staying.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Are we going to get interrupted by Tyrion? What did he want?” Probably something about further Tywin freakouts. His brother had been infected by the girls or something.

“He doesn’t know where we are. He thinks we’re at the summer house, and he didn’t tell me why he wanted you. Just that you weren’t looking at your texts.” She seemed hesitant, as if there were something on the tip of her tongue begging to come out.

He sighed. “He can wait. I want to talk.”

“I know.” She looked so apologetic, he really couldn’t stand it. She stalled. “Why are there hideous pink roses all over the barn?”

“No clue. The little asses are wearing bow ties as well.” He waited until she looked at him “Say what you want to say, Brienne.”

She blinked. “I’m so sorry about this afternoon, Jaime. I would never want to you to learn something so big like that.”

Oh, the heiress thing. He was far more interested in the baby, but he supposed this other issue was something necessary to understand as well.

He cocked his head. “You don’t look any different now that you’re an heiress to an island empire. I still want to rip your clothes off.”

“Jaime, please,” she rolled her eyes.

“Please rip your clothes off? I can oblige.”

She glared at him. “Please stop. I might agree, and as you said, we need to talk.”

“Maybe I lied.”

“You didn’t. You’re just getting distracted.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. She did that sometimes when she was feeling…antsy. That certainly didn’t make it easier to focus!

“Fine. I’ll behave,” he said with absolutely no conviction.

She met his gaze, the apology in her eyes still there. “I’m sorry. I just found out yesterday. I was going to tell you when I found you here, but then…”

“Yes.  _ Then _ . We had a good time, didn’t we.” He smirked.

“Stop distracting me! I’m trying to be contrite!” She glared harder.

“You stop distracting me with memories of our mind-blowing sexathon.” He so loved goading her, watching the blush spread over her skin.

“Here I am, trying to apologize for keeping a massive secret! Really.” She snorted.

He decided to have mercy. “Brienne, there’s no need for an apology. I know you. I know you wouldn’t keep something from me unless there was a very important reason.” He hoped he wasn’t giving something else away…the  _ baby _ …but at the same time, he  _ did _ . Just get it out already!

“That’s just it! There wasn’t an important reason at all. Dad told me haphazardly on the dock, and I never had a single clue in all my life. That’s sort of shocking. Then I wanted to tell you, because you’re the only person in the entire world I ever want to talk to when I’m so confused, and we just…we just…fucked.”

She never cursed! She really was upset. Unacceptable. He extended his hand toward her. “Come here.”

“No. You’re going to seduce me.”

“Of course I’m going to seduce you, but I’ll wait until we don’t need words anymore, okay?”

She sighed, looked suspiciously at his hand, then his face, then back at his hand. Finally, she took it and scooted over to sit next to him. He wrapped his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m the heir to Tarth,” she whispered. “I’ll be the representative of Tarth some day.”

“So I hear. You were magnificent today, derailing Olenna Tyrell, grand dame of unreasonable demands.” He drew lazy circles on her shoulder over her shirt.

“She’s still here, you know.”

“What?”

“The weather is bad for flying. Even choppers. They’re grounded until tomorrow. The bed and breakfast in town is full, so Olenna and Pod and the pilots have to stay with Dad.” She grimaced.

“Poor Selwyn!” He couldn’t imagine  _ that _ mix in the house. “Let’s not go there until they’re gone.”

“Agreed.” Then he felt her smile. “It felt good to stand up to her.”

“It was fantastic, and I’m sort of obsessed with you,” he said, not at all joking.

She rolled her head back to look at him. Her expression was yet again unreadable, but soft. 

He was losing himself in her eyes again. “I’m going to kiss you, but then I’ll stop for more words.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

Maybe it was three or fives kisses. Long, long kisses. But he was a good boy.

“You don’t mind that I essentially own an island now?” she asked.

“Why would I mind? You do know that I’m a Lannister, right? Owning islands isn’t that foreign to me,” he laughed.

“We rejected all that.  _ You _ rejected all that, Jaime. You didn’t want that life anymore.”

“And that changes just because of Tarth? It doesn’t,” he insisted. “Tarth is beautiful and comfortable. It’s not like anything  _ Lannister _ . It makes so much sense now that your father owns it all, because this island is just…like him. Warm and welcoming, and something from a past age. This doesn’t have to change anything. Though I’m sure it will be even easier to get that house now.” He smiled at her. “Did you really think I’d be upset?”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “Not really, but  _ I _ was upset. There’s… a lot going on. I was having a moment.”

“We all have moments. You deserve them. You somehow manage everyone and do it with grace. You get to have moments.”

She closed her eyes and nuzzled his throat. “You smell good.”

“I smell like hay.” Hopefully it would not provoke allergies which would potentially be bad for the baby.

“You smell like my secret husband. And hay. I’m sort of obsessed with you. My barnacle.” She smiled against his skin.

“What? How am I a  _ barnacle _ of all things? Yours yes, but barnacle?”

She grinned up at him. “I decided today, when I was out on the boat. Remember when you decided to merge all our sweatpants?”

“Of course. It was a very logical way to prevent you from going back to your place.”

“We got stuck together. Like a barnacle on a boat.” She had gone from quite upset to high spirits in the span of minutes. Such was his presence! Or pregnancy hormones.

“Barnacles aren’t very sexy. I think we’re very sexy together. But if you think we’re barnacles, I’ll have tee shirts made.”

She laughed. He knew he was the only person who could get her to laugh like that. And possibly Ser Pounce. “Of course you will, Jaime.”

“So…” he prodded.

“So?”

“Do we need more words?”

She lowered her lids, just a little. “I don’t think so.”

He leaned forward, his arm nudging her with him. “Let’s move over to that bale. This is the talking bale. That’s not.”

“No, that’s not,” she murmured, eyeing the fucking bale with a glint in her eye.

The barn door opened.

Fuck it all to the seven hells!

He glared at Brienne, but not  _ at  _ Brienne. He glared in Brienne’s direction about other obnoxious things. She glared right back.

“I’ve said I’m sorry, Mr. Lannister! It can’t be helped! I’ve been called to the sept for an emergency grapeberry festival committee meeting, and I’m the  _ chair _ . It has to be in the next fifteen minutes! My septishoners need me.” It the was the barn septon, in full vestment and hair wild from the free hand that was clawing at it.

Brienne furrowed her brow and whispered in his ear. “Why is there a septon here?”

He whispered back. “No idea. Not sure I want to. As usual.”

Then, to his greater surprise, his brother came running in, also on the phone. “We had an arrangement!” His voice bellowed within the barn  _ and _ through the septon’s phone.

The septon adopted a pained expression and held the phone away from his ear, then tucked it away somewhere under the vestment. The bow-tied little asses brayed. The chickens bawked. One of them, possibly Hodorella, not that Jaime could tell one from another, shook her feathers and brooded.

Jaime leaned closer to the rail to watch Tyrion, who halted his tirade and stared at the floor. “Did you do this? It’s fabulous.”

The septon started. “I thought  _ you _ did this?”

“Why would I do this?”

“It’s  _ your _ wedding!” The septon shouted.

Jaime instantly looked at Brienne who wore a matching stunned expression.

“Well, I didn’t do it, but speaking of, it’s supposed to be at ten! Not seven! Ten!”

“Emergency grapeberry festival committee meeting!  _ Chair _ !” the septon shouted.

“Shh! Fine. I’ll get Tysha. You stay here! Fuck Jaime and his fucking phone! He’s supposed to be here!” Tyrion ran out of the barn.

Jaime had no idea what was going on.  _ More  _ than usual. He pulled his phone from his pocket and saw that Tyrion had texted him forty times. This was why he’d sent Brienne to find him, but they’d ended up talking and flirting as normal.

Tyrion’s last text read,  _ Fuck u with a chainsaw! Be @ barn fucking now or I swear to hate u 4ever. _

Jaime showed it to Brienne. She looked upset again, then she sort of laughed, then she stared at him. “Why? Just why?”

“It’s always this way. Come on, let’s go, or he’ll really be upset.” Jaime kept her hand in his until they reached the ladder.

The noise startled the already jumpy septon. “Ack! Ghosts?”

“Burglars,” Jaime offered, jumping the last few rungs to the floor.

“Are you supposed to be here?” the septon asked.

Tyrion reappeared, out of breath and with a tuxedo jacket on over his otherwise casual dress. He spotted Jaime and adopted the most relieved and grateful look Jaime had ever seen him wear. Tyrion darted over and hugged Jaime around the waist.

“You’re here! Gods, fuck you, but thank you!”

Jaime returned the hug, but then pushed Tyrion back to look at him. “Tyrion…explain.”

Tyrion’s face lit up. “It’s brilliant! You’ll see. Just wait here and then…do whatever. You’re my witness. Hello, Brienne!” Tyrion darted out for the second time.

The septon approached, holding out a clipboard and a pen. “Please sign this, on this line here.”

It was a marriage license. From the Quiet Isle Twenty-Four Hour Sept.

Jaime laughed. He showed the board to Brienne. The paper looked exactly their own license, with the added line for the witness.

When Tyrion returned, both Jaime and Brienne were nearly doubled over with laughter. Tyrion grew red. One of his hands grasped one of Tysha’s. She was blindfolded.

“You don’t have to laugh at me,” Tyrion growled.

“What’s happening?” Tysha asked, excitedly, not nervously.

Jaime caught his breath. “We’re not laughing at  _ you _ . We’ll tell you later. I promise.”

Tyrion glared. “Hmmph.” Then his expression cleared and he looked adoringly up at Tysha even though she couldn’t see him. “Tysha…you said you wanted a wedding that wasn’t at all fancy. Something simple and unassuming. How about now?”

He tugged her down and took the blindfold from her eyes.

She blinked to adjust to the light, and stared at the barn strewn with pink roses. In the purple light that marked the painterly fade from dusk to night, the effect was quite lovely.

The little asses brayed in their bow ties. The chickens fluttered around their pen. Hodorella bawked broodishly. Tysha’s eyes filled. She smiled down at Tyrion and whispered, “It’s perfect.”

The septon stood tall and craned his neck in some weird attempt at evoking authority. Instead, he looked as if he’d strained all his tendons. “Approach for the cloaking ceremony.”

Tyrion instantly looked crestfallen. “I fucking forgot the cloak! I’ve got tourist shop rings and everything, but I fucking forgot the cloak!”

“It’s fine, love,” Tysha murmured, stroking his hair. “We don’t need a cloak.”

“We need a fucking cloak!” Tyrion groaned.

Jaime looked around. There was a rumpled sheet on a cot in the corner. Gross. A barn blanket…

Brienne stepped away, moving to another corner where a tarp covered a large pile of junk. She tugged at a piece of rose-colored brocade.

It was a long vest thing, sized for a man, but good quality. It looked…Tyrellian. It must be Margarey’s doing. Brienne brought it over to Tyrion.

He smiled in relief. “Gods, thank you. I’m a mess!”

“Yes you are, but you’re my mess.” Tysha grinned.

“You’re so perfect, I could vomit!” Tyrion proclaimed.

“Are those your vows?” Jaime chuckled.

“Yes!” Tysha said. “I love them.”

The septon cleared his throat. “If those really are your vows, please cloak the bride and say the words.”

Tysha bent down, and Tyrion cloaked her with odd vest. It didn’t look half bad on her. Jaime would have to buy it from Margaery, which meant he would owe her one, which was a hideous notion.

Tyrion took Tysha’s hands, and they spoke together, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers (his) and she (he) is mine. From this day until the end of my days.”

Tyrion had a little tear in his eye!

He continued, “With this kiss, I pledge my love.” He turned his face up, and Tysha clasped it between her hands and seriously, seriously snogged him.

Jaime had to admit, it was just slightly moving. Despite being in a barn. He felt that little clench in his chest again, just under the tiny pressure of his wedding ring on the chain. He looked over at his own wife.

She was absolutely bawling. Tears streamed down her face. She never,  _ ever  _ did that! He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest.

“I’m more of a mess than Tyrion!” she sniffed.

“You’re my mess,” he whispered.

Tysha and Tyrion signed the license, and it was all done. They were beaming.

“Excellent work, Edric. Send me a photo of the new roof!” Tyrion patted the septon on the arm.

Jaime whispered again, “Should we tell them? It’s hilarious.”

Brienne finally looked up, wiping the tears away from her red cheeks. She was smiling though. “Yes, we should.”

He kept her hand as they congratulated the other secret happy couple.

“So brother…welcome to the club.”

Tyrion glanced up at him. “What club?”

“The very exclusive club of sneaky Lannister brothers who got married on the fly with a Quiet Isle license and decided to keep it secret from everyone.” Jaime winked at him.

Tyion gaped. Tysha immediately laughed so loud it almost mixed with the braying donkeys. “Oh, of course you did!”

Brienne pulled the gold chain from around her neck and showed off her ring. “Sometimes it chafes, but it’s been nice to have it to ourselves.”

Tyrion finally recovered. He pointed a finger at Jaime. “I fucking knew it! I mean, I didn’t know, but I was shocked you hadn’t done it yet. You were way too calm.”

Jaime sobered for a moment. “You aren’t mad I didn’t tell you?”

“Not at all! Though I could have been there. I wouldn’t have said anything.” Tyrion grinned.

“You obviously planned more than we did! We were at that conference in Riverrun, and it just…happened.” Jaime drew his wife closer again. Barnacles.

“We’re a fine lot,” Tysha commented. She looked over at Brienne. “At least I’ve got good company!”

Brienne smiled at the newest Lannister. “We’ll just be clueless together.”

“So when do we tell Father?” Tyrion asked with a grimace.

Jaime looked at him. 

He looked at Jaime. 

“Never,” they agreed.

 

* * *

 

Myrcy was so out of breath her lungs might explode. She was biking way too hard. Her thighs were like thunderbolts and also rubber bands that had gotten sort of old and wouldn’t stretch much anymore.

Sansa clung to her like a Naathian Sloth. She wasn’t exactly a great bike passenger.

“I’m going to fall off!” she wailed.

“Probably!” Myrcy shouted.

She was still on a weird kind of high from being flirted at...with. That had never truly happened to her before. Ooh, Trystane Secret-Martell was sooo hot! And he liked her! He‘d given her a bag of clandestine bread with a heart drawn on a napkin! And his phone number!

She didn’t care what Marg thought. Or Sansa. Or the Martells, or the Lannisters, or anybody else. If she wanted to have a summer flirt-fest with a Dornish boy, that’s what she was going to do.

The boathouse was almost in sight, she knew. Marg had not appeared for the chowder dinner. Surely it didn’t take like seven hours to gather tree branches? She wasn’t answering texts.

“Is Marg dead?” Sansa wailed. “She’s never gone this long without replying!”

“I don’t think she’s dead, but she might have gotten kidnapped by that horse guy! Or the ferry people! Or…she’s out at sea again. I don’t know!” Myrcy peddled harder.

They arrived in front of the boathouse, and Myrcy jerked to a halt. Sansa fell off the back of the bike.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.” Myrcy was distracted though, and relieved that Sansa’s physical pain made her stop moaning about her fake breakup pain.

Inside the boathouse, the sound of whinnying horses mixed with something deeper, some kind of ghosty groaning noise.

Was the boathouse haunted?!!? Was Marg the captive of a vengeful dead cursed smuggler captain?

At the tiny window on the side of the boathouse, a hand appeared, slapping the glass.

“Oh gods, she’s grasping for help!” Sansa cried.

“Marg!” Myrcy shouted. “Are you undead!”

The groaning sound stopped. The horsey noises continued.

In a minute or two, the boathouse door opened, and Marg came out. She was glistening, dewey well beyond what she usually allowed herself to be. She looked like she’d thrown her minidress on in three seconds.

Her hair was  _ askew _ .

She was grinning like a maniac as she hobbled over to them. She threw an arm over each of their shoulders. “Oh darlings, my life is forever altered.”

Sansa wailed, “Oh goddsssss, you  _ are _ undead!”

Marg chuckled. “No my loves, I am  _ very _ alive. I have found enlightenment. I am not going to be a septa anymore. I  _ cannot _ . They are celibate, and I have just discovered what good banging is. Without Hot Uncle Jaime!”

Myrcy shook her head. “Wait…you were in the boathouse… _ banging _ ! Who?!?!!?!”

Marg took on a far-away, dreamy expression. “Dickon Tarly. And goddddsssss is his  _ dick on _ .”

“Ew!!!!!” Sansa wailed.

“Stop, I am an innocent nugget!” Myrcy shouted.

The offending bang-monster appeared in the door. He had no shirt on. Myrcy did  _ not _ want to admit that he was carved like the Titan of Braavos.

Not that he had anything on the swarthier gorgeousness of the Dornish. He didn’t even have sexy guyliner.

“Hey babe. I got maybe two or three left in me before I need a steak.” He sounded totes cazsh, but Myrcy thought he wore the same kind of dreamy thing going on that Marg was.

Marg’s eyes gleamed. “Goddsssss! Oh, we got all the branches and stuff. It’s all going to be ready, I promise. But I’m staying here tonight. I’m sure you understand. You see, I have to go back to business school once we’ve succeeded in arranging the epicness, because I still have to become Grandmother, and Dickon is going to be my consort.”

“You’re not a queen,” Sansa mumbled. “I just want everyone to be miserable because I’m miserable.”

“I know darling. I’m not a queen, but I’m a  _ businesswoman _ . It’s all going to be okay.”

Myrcy didn’t really want to say anything, but it was better to say than  _ not  _ say. “Marg…your grandmother is here. She’s at Grandfather Selwyn’s. Eating chowder,”

Marg paled. “Wh…why??!?!?!?!”

“She wanted to buy Tarth I guess. Aunt Brienne owns it.”

“Well obviously. She’s really a queen. Duh. But you can’t tell her! About Dickon I mean! She’ll send him away like she sends all the boys away! Help me hide him, please?!?” she pleaded.

Marg really liked this one. She never wanted to go against her grandmother. She looked at Sansa who looked at her. They nodded.

“Of course, Marg.”

“Oh, I do love you!” Marg hugged them collectively. “And tomorrow, you can help me burn the septa collar in a fire to the Squid god.”

 


	11. In Which There is a Command Center, a Beach Chase, and an Uninvited Guest

 

Brienne watched him as he bustled around the old great hall of Tarth manor. Jaime. Her barnacle. She felt an overwhelming desire to attach herself to him, but that wasn’t possible at the moment.

Her father had turned the main hall into an enormous living room that he used solely for social events and dragonball watching parties. Or so she thought. There was his huge television concealed behind a tapestry of sea bass. It rolled up with a remote. The pool table was on the other side of the long space, and in between, a sectional quite sufficient to hold every single one of the random children in their party. Not that they were all present. But it _would_ , and she caught herself smiling as she daydreamed about the specific cushion the baby would choose.

Because, sure, a _baby_ could pick cushions. She was an idiot.

Now, there was no social event and no dragonball.

When she’d woken up that morning, it had been peaceful and sunny, glaringly so. That was the first sign that the winds had changed. The stormfront she’d spotted from the boat the day before was on its way, and it was, as Selwyn would say, a doozy.

She’d slept like, well, a baby, all wrapped in Jaime’s arms. That was probably because everyone but Myrcy and Sansa had stayed at Tarth manor, even Tommen, who refused to leave the mewling Gatehouse Ami. The barncat was apparently displaying signs of impregnation. Brienne did not know how anyone could tell _this_ soon, but she did not question. Sansa was still dying according to herself, so she slept instead of chattering the night away. It had been the quietest night since they’d arrived on the island, and probably for a year beforehand.

As her lids had fluttered closed from exhaustion, she’d decided to tell Jaime without waiting for her final location to be found. It was all just taking too long. She wanted him to _know_. With the storm, she wasn’t even sure when they could get out to the hidden cave she’d so loved as a child. The entrance was off the beach.

She’d decided, and was equally resolved when they’d awakened. And then all the calls came in. Tarth was on lockdown, and it was an all-hands-on-deck situation to act quickly in matters of public safety. According to her father. Who had written the manual on Tarth Storm Survival and Grapeberry Poultice Application.

He’d asked for help, and she could never refuse. They had been gathered in the old hall for hours. It was a command center, and Brienne had watched in astonishment as her father had pulled down all the old vinyl window shades to reveal a series of island maps. One for the power grid. One for the areas of critical support depending on storm-landing. One for emergency shelters and supply locations. One for “places to tackle damn tourists and haul them to the Shack.”

Selwyn had a satellite phone.

She broke from her continued amazement and returned to the task at hand, phone check-ins with the inhabitants of the areas of critical support. It seemed the storm would strike hardest on the shore near that old boathouse. She had already spoken to most of the residents and kept a list of those who didn’t respond.

So this was what her father did as representative of Tarth. He wasn’t at all interested in the trappings of politics, didn’t care about impressing the city folk. He loved Tarth and the people on it, and she saw with pride how much everyone loved him. The chief of the Watch was there, and the air traffic control warden, and the emergency coordinator. Tarth was small but mighty.

Jaime had been put in charge of shelters and supplies. At first, he’d wanted to stay in the background and let people with two hands who could take notes _and_ speak on the phone do the busy tasks while he assisted, but it was too clear how well he could manage many moving parts. With the help of Podrick Payne, Jaime had almost completed his inventory and would be ready to delegate help when needed.

Her father had already ordered the power grid into emergency mode. She did not know what that meant, but she would have to learn since she would have to do all of this herself someday. It was overwhelming to say the least. She didn’t even live on Tarth! Not full time! And she couldn’t imagine leaving the city and their beautiful house, or asking Jaime to work from home forever. It wasn’t even a question that he would have to accompany her. _Barnacles._ It might work part of the year, in the summers, but otherwise, she would need help. She would have to find trustworthy Tarthians to share the burden.

Or Selwyn could just do it forever since he was going to be ageless like Olenna Tyrell.

Who was, surprisingly, helping with the tourists. She knew what tourists did and how they thought, and where they might go. Even though there were only a few dozen on Tarth on a summer weekday in the storm season, Olenna had skills and was being helpful.

The girls had even managed to blast all the necessary storm information on Tarth social media, somehow connecting to Tarthsley and Alyston at the Shack to make sure there were hashtags and whatever else people who weren’t old like herself might need to ensure safety.

They were close to _the wait_. She’d been through at least one major storm every year growing up. It was always a mad dash to prepare, get all the windows boarded up if you were on the storm side, secure the barn, all that. And then it was waiting. Rain would make the roof sound like a kettledrum, and the house would rattle, and the wind would sound like an army of undead. The lights would go out, and it would get cold. She’d bundled up with her father during those storms, reading books by flashlight and eating beans out of cans even though there were many more sensible meal options.

She crossed out the last name on her list, and handed the paper with the unreachables to her father. Her eyes were always tracking Jaime, looking like a military commander as he strode around the hall, pointing and giving orders to Podrick. Olenna had claimed the most comfortable portion of the sectional as her office, commanding her grandsons and Renly to mark spots on the map or make a call. Well, Loras and Renly. Willas was curled up on the rug holding his chest and staring at Sansa Stark who was apparently still determined to ignore him. _That_ was going to have to be handled.

The girls were huddled in a corner as they fired off texts and posts.

Arya and Gendry were snogging inside the giant fireplace. Fortunately, there was no fire.

Her father paced all over, making sure everything was being covered as he shouted at the local septon and the chief of the Watch and the warden.

The two pilots who everyone kept forgetting about had been assigned to assist the air traffic warden and the chief of the Watch. They said almost nothing but seemed to know each other and were just slightly hostile. Brienne speculated that they had been co-workers and one of them had gotten poached by Tywin or Olenna with greater pay.  

Tyrion and Tysha made sandwiches. They had appeared from their secret honeymoon suite very, very late, and the only thing left to do was feed the group. Tysha was very happy to do so. Tyrion was…still Tyrion, but somehow slightly _less_ Tyrion than usual. They were both glowing.

And Tommen was on the stairs. He had Ser Pounce in his Baby Tormund, and Briann the Lizard draped over his shoulders, and Gatehouse Ami in a cat crate next to him on the first landing. She was mewling up a storm. Brienne chuckled, because Jaime would have found that hilarious.

She wanted to go to Jaime and tell him to take a five-minute break so they could go snog in the pantry and she could _tell him,_ but Tommen looked worried. He was too quiet. She moved through the din to sit next to him.

“How is Ser Pounce doing with all this crazy?” She ruffled his hair a little, but it was more of a fond brush.

Tommen sighed deeply and loudly, as if he were preparing for a great wail borrowed from Sansa. “He is feeling overly stimulated and is consequently unsure of his direction.”

“Ah, I see. That’s understandable considering the state of things.” She nodded sagely. “I think perhaps an anchovy or two might help. Even a sandwich for you, hmm? He wouldn’t want you to be too hungry to sing lullabies to him if he gets scared.”

Tommen matched her nod. “Yes, food. He is going to get scared. I can tell.”

“I know. The best thing to do about a scared cat in a storm is to take all the cushions off that huge sofa and make a cushion fort, and bundle up in ten blankets and read stories by flashlight. I hear animals love cushion forts.” She draped her long arm around the boy, the cat, and the lizard, and brought them all close. Briann smelled like algae.

Tommen, to her surprise, tucked his head under her chin and clung to her, despite the hindrance of the various beasts. “Maybe you could read m…Ser Pounce a story in the cushion fort?”

And he was going to be _twelve_!!! No. She refused it. She wrapped her other arm around the Tommen-beast blob and held him close. He was the kindest, sweetest boy and must be protected at all costs. As Myrcy liked to say.

She rested her cheek on top of his head, but she felt eyes on them. She glanced across the hall at Jaime. His stare was intense as a laser, but he smiled. No teeth. He lifted his hand and placed it over his heart.

 _Idiot_! she mouthed. He winked at her.

And then Margaery Tyrell stood in front of her, blocking her view of Jaime.

“Hello, Aunt Brienne!” she said brightly, as if that strange cloud in her eyes from being a septa, or whatever, had been lifted. “Hello, Tommen. And…things…anyway, I have to tell my…friend, yes _friend,_ that he shouldn’t be on the storm side of the island, because I just found out that he’s on the storm side of the island with his…large dogs, and that when the storm hits the storm side of the island, it’s probably going to kill him and his…large dogs. So I have to tell him to leave the storm side of the island. So do you know what he can do with his…large dogs? They’re large. Clompy and large.”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed. Tommen patted Ser Pounce’s mewling head as Briann licked his furry ear. She’d seen that side of the island where some large _horses_ had been trotting yesterday. “Margaery, do you mean horses? Do you not know the difference between a horse and a large dog? Because I saw white horses there. You really should take a basic course in identifying animals, along with survival skills.” A camp even, here on Tarth.

Margaery went pale. “Of _course_ I know the difference! I just…thought he said he had dogs.” She sighed. “Fine, horses then. What can he do with six horses so they don’t all die?”

“Are they not already in a barn?” Brienne peered at Margaery. There was simply no explanation for her antics.

Margaery blinked owlishly. “Nnnnnnooooooo?” she drawled.

Brienne groaned, just a little. “They’re not going to die anyway. The storm side of the island gets hit hard sometimes, but we’re very prepared. Animals can be spooked and run off, however, so you should tell him get his horses to the closest emergency barn. Jaime has the map.” Brienne _would_ have glanced at her barnacle husband again, but Marg was still blocking.

“Oh, thank you! He can’t die in a freak horse-spooking incident!” She seemed to contemplate life in general for a moment. “Can’t he bring them over here to this barn?”

Brienne shook her head. “There are one or two closer, and closer is better. And there’s no way to fit horses into the barn with all the little asses and the chickens.”

Marg nodded with one finger tapping her chin. “Yes, I see the problem. Alright, I’m going to tell him before it’s too late!” She darted off.

There Jaime was, smirking at her. The noise had settled, and she glanced over at her father to see him nodding with satisfaction over his open and enormous storm-safety manual, waving to the chief of the Watch, and air traffic control warden, and the emergency coordinator as they left to continue their various duties.

His booming voice rattled the old iron chandelier. “Well that does it, folks! We’re about as prepared as Tarth ever has been, thanks to all your fine help! This is a big one coming in! Time to make the thermoses of all those hot beverages we’re going to want, and get the cans of beans out.”

“I will not be consuming beans from a can, thank you,” Olenna Tyrell stated her full matriarch power.

Brienne leaned down to whisper to Tommen. “She’s not wrong! Don’t eat the beans! Can you imagine this many people in a cushion fort, with _beans_?”

He giggled, and she felt some of the tension leave his body.

Selwyn called out one more time. “Has anyone here forgotten anything? It’s all got to be tied down and locked up tight as a rusty bolt!”

Many hands shot up into the air. Brienne groaned. Again. Couldn’t they all just sit still and behave for once?

Sansa Stark was first. “I left my notebook in the gazebo! It’s going to be dead like me if I don’t get it!”

Selwyn nodded.

“Buddy system!” Jaime called out. “Sansa, you are _not_ leaving by yourself, even for five minutes. You’ll forget about the time and get swept away.”

“I’ll go with her! I’m her caretaker in her time of extreme heartbreak. I won’t let the wind take her!” Myrcy offered.

Then Gendry. “M’prize rowboat’s on the beach. Can I bring it up higher, like…on the grass or somethin?”

“I’ll help! I’m stronger than most people four times my size!” Arya declared.

“You are _not_!” Sansa wailed. “You’re just fast and get so annoying, people run away from you!”

“Shut up!”

“Shut up you, mini-bitch!”

“Language, Sansa!” Brienne called out, not even forcefully. What was the point anymore?

Arya and Gendry ran out, sort of snogging on the go. Brienne couldn’t even begin to comprehend how.

“Sorry! Hey, where’s Marg?” Sansa glanced around.

Brienne grimaced. She’d thought Margaery had intended to _call_ her friend, but clearly she’d meant _tell_ as in, face to face. That was _not_ good. The other side of the island was far enough that she might not return before the storm hit. She gently set Tommen upright and whispered again, “I’ll be back soon. Why don’t you ask Aunt Tysha to cut your apple snack, and find some other treats for the cushion fort?” The idea of food made her feel starving all of a sudden. Surely the baby couldn’t need more food _this_ early? She surreptitiously brushed her hand over her stomach and ignored it.

Tommen nodded, but he stared up at her. She couldn’t read his expression, which itself was _not_ normal. “Everything will be okay, Tommen. I promise.”

Finally he nodded again, and gathered his animals to head to the kitchen.  

She moved quickly over to Jaime, not wanting to encourage any further potential volunteers within the restless group and equally not wanting Tommen to be scared on his own. Jaime reached for her hand immediately. “What is it?” His voice was low to match her intent.

“Margaery has gone off. She needs to be retrieved within the hour, or it’s not going to end well. She’s _Margaery_.” She flashed Jaime a very pointed look. Margaery couldn’t butter toast without an assistant and a butter knife trimmed in roses and designed specially for her hand.

Jaime frowned, but instead of agreeing, he took the few steps over to Olenna’s perch on the sectional, dragging Brienne with him.

“Olenna, can you explain why it is that _three_ of your grandchildren are here, and yet you seem to have absolutely no ability to care for them? You expect us to do it? Because we _owe_ you? I think not. Loras is clomping about like a complete idiot, and you say nothing. Willas is behaving as if he’s being weaned from milk of the poppy, and he keeps bleeding everywhere and getting hives, and you have no apparent awareness of his state. Just _look_ at him! He’s wearing a blood-covered shirt and has cheesecloth duct-taped to his chest! And Margaery…she’s now nearly drowned _twice_ and wore a septa’s collar and almost nothing else, and fell out of a helicopter, and now she’s run off for the gods’ know what reason right before a huge storm. With all your business acumen, have you got any real idea of _anything_?”

Oh, that was hot. Jaime had gone…full Jaime. And it was hot. She was equally affected by his truth-telling and his chiseled jaw as he glared.

Olenna stared him down. It did not work. Finally, she sighed and had the sense to focus on her enormous ring. “Jaimeboy…my son, and yes he exists, my son was an easy child. He sometimes wandered into the occasional beehive or river, but in general, Mace was a simple, well-mannered, jovial child. His septa adored him. I was very happy to seat him at meals. The only thing I did wrong was allow him to marry Alerie Hightower. She is positively the most emotionally flamboyant woman in the entire world. Together, they form a clueless union where one sometimes wonders how they manage to find their way into their shoes in the morning. So you see? My grandchildren got theatrics from their father, histrionics from their mother, and brains from me. That mix is…challenging. Even for me. I helped raise them and made them my heirs. They’ve survived so far, and it’s the best I’ve been able to manage.”

Brienne felt a large hand on her shoulder, and glanced back to see her father smiling at her. He spoke low, even though everyone else would hear, too. “You see, my girl? This is why I didn’t tell you about Tarth. People with gold can’t do shit.”

She saw. She smiled back and covered his hand with hers. “Language, Dad!”

“Not even sorry!” he boomed.

Jaime still glared. “So after all this, _we_ still have to go get Margaery!”

Olenna waved her hand and tsked. It almost sounded like a cluck. “What do you want? For me to go out there on foot? I would hope I would be on the retrieval list as well, because I’d never make it back. I’ll compromise, however. Send Danwell and that other pilot? What your name, boy? Hoster?”

The Lannister pilot mumbled, “Hosteen, ma’am.”

Olenna squinted. “What kind of name is _Hosteen_. Change it. It’s terrible.”

“Yes, ma’am. Wait, no ma’am.” He started to sweat. “I serve the Lannisters! See? Ain’t that right, Dano? I got the better-looking family and more pay, you go tell mum!”

“I ain’t telling mum! You tell mum yourself!” Dano… _Danwell_ retorted.

So she’d been right! Brienne smiled to herself.

“Both of you, retrieve Margaery, safe and sound and soon. Understand?” Olenna commanded.

Brienne took pity on them and said in her calmest voice, “She’s run off to the other side of the island. Try to overtake her and get her to one of the emergency shelters. There might not be time to return here. And stay safe.”

Jaime finally dropped her hand to pick up a few copied maps and hand them to the pilots. “The x’s are the shelters. Look to the old castle ruins on the hill to orient yourself.”

Danwell and Hosteen nodded identically and darted off.

“And with that, I think we need to get Tysha’s car out of the road. The windows aren’t even rolled up.” Tyrion appeared in the middle of the group. “Pod, come help, and we’ll need more hands, if there’s anyone functional left in this hall.”

“Hey!” said many voices.

“No, not you Willas. Definitely not you.” Tyrion shook his head.

“We can help,” Loras offered. “Even though we _clomp_!”

Tyrion sized them up. “I suppose so. Those horseshoes may give you traction. Septon Edric! Come lend a hand.”

The septon tried to sink behind the sectional.

“Ah, no you don’t. I know where you live.” Tyrion grinned frighteningly.

Podrick Payne half-jogged out the door, so eager to please. The septon wordlessly shuffled out behind Loras and Renly, and Tyrion followed.

“If you think you’re taking care of my car now just because we’re m…matched well, you’ve got another thing coming!” Tysha hopped after them. “Don’t touch my books!”

Myrcy and Sansa went to get the precious notebook, and the hall was abruptly very quiet. _Too_ quiet.

Did they have five minutes? Because if they had five minutes, Brienne could haul Jaime off to the pantry and _tell him_.

They did not have five minutes.

Tommen tugged on her sleeve and looked up with doe-eyes that surpassed all of the little asses put together in terms of innocent manipulation. It worked, because she would do nearly anything to make him feel better. “I am concerned about my chickens, Aunt Brienne. I think they would be much more at peace here in the  where the wind will not whip through the barn slats and frighten them.”

Well…why not? What was a set of six chickens in an old great hall? She glanced at her father.

“Of course, m’boy! Those poor city chickens, can’t handle country living much can they. Jaime, can you cordon off the kitchen? The chickens can go there. We’ll give them beans!” Selwyn clapped his hand on Tommen’s back, sending the boy skipping ahead a step. “Come, Brienne my girl. We’ll get the chickens. Tom-boy, you stay with the bigger animals.”

Tommen carefully placed Ser Pounce and Briann on the sectional, _not_ close to Olenna, and perched there with one arm around each beast. “Yes, Grandfather Selwyn.”

Brienne waited just a moment and noticed Olenna’s inquisitive look. She pointed at the harridan with a stern finger. “Do _not_ allow Tommen to be sad!”

Olenna scanned her head to toe. “My dear, you’re going to be a nightmare in a few months.”

Brienne gaped, but she had no time to process. At this rate, everybody in Westeros would figure out she was pregnant before she could say a word to Jaime.

Unacceptable.

She moved over to him as he was trying to gather map boxes and firewood bins to make a chicken pen in the kitchen. He grinned at her. She didn’t feel like grinning. More like…sleeping for ten hours and maybe a massage. An actual, regular massage from some Bear Island woman with muscular arms, not a sexy massage. But that, too, after.

“Jaime, when there’s even _five minutes_ , I want to talk to you. Please.” She was really desperate at this point, almost blurting _it_ out, but that wasn’t fair. She couldn’t tell him she was pregnant and then run off to move chickens.

He nodded, very serious now. “We’ll find five minutes. Or ten. However long we need.”

She knew that wasn’t true, but she could hope for the five. She smiled her closed -lipped smile that was regretful about being parted.

Chickens weren’t that heavy. She could probably take them all in herself.

She rushed outside toward the barn, and the wind was really picking up. It was going to be horrible on the storm side, and she was genuinely very worried about Margaery. She should have gone after the girl herself. Now, there wasn’t time.

Loose foliage began to whip away from trees and shrubs. This was too fast…it shouldn’t be this bad for several hours.

She was almost to the barn. The clouds darkened, and it was like the shadow of an ancient dragon flying, obscuring the sun. It felt like dusk instead of afternoon. Her nerves were on edge. The barn door was slightly open, and inside, her father was trying to catch all the chickens and get them on their guest-bed-sheet chicken leash.

The wind slammed the barn door shut. The little asses brayed in misery that made her feel bad for them.

Selwyn stopped to contemplate the poor creatures. “We should maybe bring them in, too. The dining room can hold them if we take the chairs out.” Her father chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time!”

They had done it. They had driven her father insane with their chaos. “What? Father…seriously?!”

“They scare easy!” He shrugged.

“ _I’m_ going insane,” Brienne muttered to herself, deciding that if they had any hope of waiting the storm out in peace, she’d have to get this over with.

She bent to command each chicken to allow itself to be leashed. “Hodorella…particularly _you_.” They obeyed.

Then she found the little ass harnesses and started to get those in place.

The wind rattled the whole barn just as Tommen had said it would. Asses were braying and chickens bawking everywhere, and then… _then_ , the storm siren sounded.

It was too early! Way, way too early. As much preparation as had been made, everybody in their own party was out in the weather. She could never, in good conscience, leave them to their own devices. They were idiots.

But the baby…and so many idiots gone in so many directions! She really didn’t know what to do, and that was supremely unsettling.

A hand gripped her arm, as familiar as her own and warm and reassuring.

Jaime was not grinning. “There’s a fucking chicken coop behind the couch, and I won’t be parted from you again.”

She _did_ grin then, in absolute relief. “The storm is here, Jaime. We have to get everyone inside.”

“I can get everyone inside, not you,” he said. There was a look there. A _look_.

He…knew. He _knew_! The bastard. How could he know?!?! Well, he wasn’t stupid. She could see that he might have figured it all out easily, and was waiting for her to tell him. How dumbass it all was. _Language, Brienne_.

“I know this island, Jaime. It will be fast, and I’ll be fine. Besides, you’re here, too. _We’ll_ be fine.” She hoped her expression communicated that she knew that he _knew_ , but there just wasn’t time to talk about it.

He stared at her, right down through her eyeballs and into her skull until she fidgeted. Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

The storm siren was shrill and more booming than her father’s voice. Jaime couldn’t do much about the little ass harnesses, but he could hand them to her, and they fortunately made quick work of herding the animals. She strung a rope through all the harnesses, and Selwyn took the lead to get the little asses inside. They stomped and brayed, but followed him out of the barn at least.

She gathered the chickens. Five cooperated primly and walked behind her on the leash, but Hodorella…ooh, she was an entitled mistress. She was quite lucky to belong to Tommen or she probably would have ended up as a roast.

Brienne had to carry her.

Jaime glanced around the barn and slapped his hand against his thigh to lure out any random animals that might be hiding. One never knew.

The first step was to get the six chickens, the twelve little asses, and her father back into the house safely. Then they would tackle everyone else. Maybe literally.

 

* * *

 

All the branches and greenery they had gathered was strewn about the beach, almost as shredded as the mistake-roses from the supply crate.

Marg wanted to cry. She _never_ cried. That was Sansa’s job. But everything really was going to be ruined. Even her powers could not produce an epic wedding historic event in this mess.

If it wasn’t for the searing disappointment of this failure, she would feel…feelings? No, not feelings.

Feelz.

They were infinitely worse. Feelz were realz.

She had ridden Myrcy’s bike all the way across the island, and her crotch chafed like _a lot_. The storm siren had gone off two hundred years ago, it seemed, shrieking all over the island. There was no time left! Dickon might be dead!

Dickon Tarly burst out of the boathouse, his schmexy grey-ish sorta blue eyes lasering right at her. “I thought maybe you were done with me. It’s been like six hours.”

She skidded to a halt just in time to prevent slamming into his rock-hard abs. There was no _time_ for abs. “Of course not! I want you like fifty shades Frey, but the _storm_!!!! I was so worried you were going to die horribly and be torn apart into a thousand pieces! And the horses, obvs.”

Dickon frowned, gripping her barre-studio chiseled upper arms. Her nerves exploded. “What storm?”

Marg smirked, disbelievingly. “ _That_ storm!” she pointed out at the water. “The giant black one that looks like the Stranger’s bitchier cousin. And that horrible noise is the warning siren!”

Dickon peered at the horrible stormfront that was steadily chugging toward them. The wind was insane and blew her hair all over her face. “Oh. I had no idea!”

It was then that Margaery realized two things about Dickon Tarly. One, he was so super beautiful in the gross-looking storm light that she knew he was going to replace Hot Uncle Jaime in her rem-sleep sexy dreams.

And two…Dickon was as dumb as Briann the Lizard.

Was that okay with her? Yes. That was okay, because _haawwwwwtttt._

But she had to know. “Dickon?”

“Yeah, Babe?” He stroked his thumbs along her arms.

She shivered. “What’s my middle name? I told you last night so you could shout my full name in the throes of boathouse ecstasy, but do you remember?”

Dickon grinned. “Margaery Olenna Hightower Tyrell. Obvs.”

She shrieked with joy and jumped up into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist even though her shoe caught in the bike. “You remembered! It was a trick question, ‘cause I have _two_ middle names!”

“Yeah, I know!” He laughed.

She snogged him, but only once because of looming death. “Dickie, we’ve got to get the horses away from here. I don’t think we’ve got very long.”

“Where do we go?”

She struggled to get the emergency map from the pocket of her acid-wash jort hot pants. “There are emergency barns, apparently. The closest one.”

Dickon nodded and moved into the boathouse without even letting her down. She clung like a spider monkey as he gathered horses supplies, then he lifted her onto the sleek back of the prettiest one.

“Stay there. You look like a princess!” He kept staring at her as he tied the horses together and led them from the barn.

“No, Dickie, I’m a queen! Of thorns!”

“Nah, babe, roses, but I’m the prick.” He winked. That was a stupid joke! Who else told stupid jokes! Hot Uncle Jaime!

Dickon was her Hot Uncle Jaime. She _feelzed_ it.

 

* * *

 

“Are we going the right way, Dano?” Hosteen panted after his brother as the rain began to soak their pilot uniforms to the skin.

“Don’t know!”

“How we gonna find out?” Hosteen slipped on some moss and almost face-planted.

“Don’t know!”

“Gonna keep going like this anyway?”

“Yep.”

“Okay!” Hosteen caught a flying twig before it poked his eye out.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion’s back ached from pushing Tysha’s car behind the gazebo so it had some semblance of cover.

Loras lay on the damp grass, exhausted. Renly sat next to him and grumbled as he pried his man-horse-shoes from his man-shoe-shoes. Pod barely huffed, but he was already in decent shape. The septon was missing. He’d simply vanished the second the car began to move.

Tysha seemed the most recovered, but that wasn’t entirely surprising given her robust constitution in the face of everything but sick lizards.

“The siren’s been on for a while. We should be inside,” she said with real concern.

“Nooooo! My notebook! Nooooo!” Sansa Stark darted past, flapping her arms into the air as the wind carried fluttering white pages out toward the sea.

“Noooo! Sansa!!! Nooooo!” Myrcy chased after her. “The storm! You’ll die for real and be dead and not like ded!”  Tyrion could actually hear the difference.

Sansa Stark raced down the path to the sand, clutching her precious pages when she managed to grab them. Tyrion sucked in a breath.

“They can’t be on the beach when the storm hits!” Tysha shouted.

“Myrcy!” he shouted too, as loud as he could. “Myrcella, no, get inside!”

There was no response, and he looked up at Tysha who looked down at him. They were responsible adults. Ha!

But they _were_ trying to be. They couldn’t leave those foolish girls to the mercy of the weather.

“Sanssaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!” A hideous ghostly moan tore the atmosphere. “Sansa, noooooo! I have confessed my sins and have become a new vessel of love for you so don’t dieeeeeeee!!!!!”

Willas Tyrell streaked past in his horrible bloody outfit, barefoot, and rushed to the beach.

Tyrion sighed but prepared himself to run, because losing more time would be counterproductive. “Loras and Renly…go be somewhere. Pod, make sure Tysha gets inside safely or I’ll kill you. I’m serious. Really. No, I’m actually very serious.”

Renly continued to laugh.

Pod hesitantly moved in Tysha’s direction.

“Where you go, I go, you bloody control-freak!” Tysha smacked his shoulder and grabbed his hand.

“I’ll come up with something witty to say later,” he huffed as they’d started to chase the runaways.

 

* * *

 

 Jaime herded the animals into Selwyn’s large dining room, and he didn’t even mean that metaphorically. The chairs had been removed, and the table functioned as a surprisingly nice shelter for the little asses. They happily huddled together under it as Tommen held out baby carrots.

The chickens bawked from their kitchen coop, even Hodorella who has survived the intense journey from the barn despite many of her feathers falling out from struggling in Brienne’s arms.

He sighed.

Tommen turned around to look up at him. “Are you quite well Uncle Jaime?”

Jaime chuckled and squatted down to look Tommen in the eye. He didn’t think that would be necessary for more than a few years at best. “Yes, Tom, I’m quite well. Quite.”

Tom’s expression was completely open and guileless. “Is that because you’re going to be a father? I mean, a _real_ father?”

Jaime fell back on his not-so-little ass. “What?!? How…what?!?!”

Then Tom seemed downcast and averted his eyes. “Having diligently studied the signs of feline expectation, I believe Aunt Brienne to be expecting a developing human.”

Jaime did not feel right about confirming it all without Brienne there, but what was he to do? The other thing Tommen had said crept into his mind, and he furrowed his brow. “Are you worried about being replaced?”

Tommen had gone through this anxiety the year before. “No!” he proclaimed too quickly. “Yes. No….yes.”

Jaime took a moment to breathe and think. “Tom…went you rescued Briann, did you love Ser Pounce any less?”

Tommen’s eyes went comically wide, and his stance projected the most affronted reaction ever. “By the Seven! No!”

Yes, this was the path. “And did you love Briann less when the chickens arrived?”

“Again, no.”

Jaime nodded. “You have all these animals, and they’re all equally important. You love them all, but differently.”

Tommen scowled as ferociously as he ever did. “You did not ask whether I love _Ser Pounce_ more.”

Shit. There was a loophole. Why was there always a loophole? He tried again. “Point taken. I think even the chickens know Ser Pounce is king. Right, so what about the kittens, then?”

Tommen seemed to contemplate this new scenario.

Jaime prodded, hoping to get ahead of this game. “When the kittens are born, I think you will love them. A lot. They’ll be special, because they’re Ser Pounce’s children, and _he’s_ special. You’ll still love Ser Pounce, but you can also love the kittens. He won’t even mind since he’ll love them, too, right?”

Reluctantly, Tommen nodded.

Jaime placed his hand over Tommen’s skinny shoulder. “It’s not a very good analogy, I’m afraid, but it’s true. It’s going to be different, because I never got to see you or Myrcy born, or be with you when you were very little. Now, I’ll get to do that, and it’s exciting and important. And scary. But I want that to be exciting and important to you and Myrcy as well. We are all family. Adding to it makes it bigger. It doesn’t take anything away.” He swallowed thickly. “I love you, and I love Myrcy, and I even love Ser Pounce. I’m not going to be a _real_ father now, Tom. I _am_ a real father. Unless you object, in which case I’ll really have to do better!” He tried to chuckle at that, but he knew it failed.

Tom shook his head. “You do very well.”

Tommen might as well have said that Jaime was king of cat owners, it meant _that_ much. He drew the boy into his arms and squeezed hard. “It’s all going to be okay. It’s all going to be wonderful.”

Tommen leaned back and smiled. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” Tommen bit his bottom lip. He was picking up _all_ the bad Lannister habits. “Can I bring a little ass home?”

Now Jaime did chuckle. “I’m afraid we really don’t have the space they need. But you can see them here on Tarth whenever we can get over. How about a fish tank?”

“Maybe…a parrot? I could teach it to sing to Ser Pounce’s kittens!” Tommen eyes lit up at the prospect.

Yes, that’s what the house needed. A singing bird.

Brienne came into the dining room, stepping over the safety gate blocking various beast exits. She stared at them as the little asses mingled and the cat and the lizard lounged on the tabletop.

“Jaime, Margaery is still missing, and Sansa and Myrcy have not returned, and neither has Tyrion, Tysha, Loras, Renly, Arya, or Gendry, and Willas Tyrell has run off with no shoes. We have to find them.”

Jaime stared at her beautiful eyes, still holding Tommen close. “We’re getting a parrot,” he said.

She shrugged. “Sure. Are you coming? Tommen, we’ll be back. I will fulfill my cushion fort promise, I _promise_. We have to rescue idiots first.”

“I understand,” Tommen said. “I think I am excited about the human kitten.”

She drew her brows together, and Jaime scrambled to his feet, patting Tommen’s shoulder. He darted after her, not even stopping to answer various requests from Olenna.

Out in the blustery rain, she glanced over at him as they jogged toward the beach. “Jaime…is Tom trying to create a monster? We can’t encourage that. The old maester Qyburn got sent to prison for that.”

 

* * *

 

Willas Tyrell slipped and skidded his way across the wet sand. For a moment, he believed that his one true beloved had perished in the sea as he spotted floating white notebook pages on the ragged waves near shore. But no vision of swaying red hair appeared, and there was no corpse.

If he did not re-win her, he did not know how to go on. Yet he must, for Wise Uncle Jaime had told him the ways of adulting.

He couldn’t hear anything above the wind and the waves. Not even wailing! He would find her. He _would_. Even if his feet continued to bleed and he died of it because he’d stepped on a jagged oyster shell.

 

* * *

 

 Myrcy was out of breath, the scary storm siren and the sea noise sort of deafening her. She _had_ to get Sansa back inside. It was just…the responsible thing to do.

Sansa finally stopped chasing the last page of paper that had not drowned. It was super sad, really. So much of Sansa’s pretty work all lost.

Sansa wailed and pointed at a weird moving shadow ahead of them. “It’s a sea monster!”

In the ever-darkening light, Myrcy could make out a big hump, like the back of a whale, but it had weird skinny turtle legs. It would be a _really_ cool sea monster.

But it was just an overturned boat being carried.

“Hey Arya!” she shouted.

The boat-monster stopped moving.

“Oh my gods, it’s Gendrya!” Sansa shouted with disgust. “Ew.

The boat tilted to one side to reveal a soaked Arya and Gendry, huffing and puffing.

“Dumbass!” Arya shouted.

“Where are you going?” Myrcy asked, starting to shiver because of being soaked.

Arya kicked Gendry in the shin. He didn’t even budge. “We were trying to get the dumb boat onto the grass, but we lost direction, and Gendry wouldn’t stop ‘cause he never stops, and if I left, he’d go out and row.”

“Storm rowing sounds cool!” Gendry grinned.

“Aunt Brienne’s not saving your dead ass!” Arya yelled.

“From my point of view, you’re both being just super immature and should be back at the house, because…because you’ve got gross nasty love and I don’t!” Sansa wailed.

“You don’t have a point of view, dumbass, and you never have!” Arya kicked sand ineffectively.

“Hey look!” Gendry pointed somewhere way behind them. “Is that a poet ghost?”

Myrcy and Sansa spun around, and Myrcy could only see a very hazy, weaving figure somewhere near the beached storage crate.

“It’s _Willasssssss_!” Sansa moaned. “He’s going to die in the sea! Oh my gods, he’s _going to die_! He can’t die! I need to kill him myself for breaking me in forty jillion pieces, but he can’t dieeeeeee! I need his words of affirmation and his skinny chest and his love!” Sansa took off into the death-mist. “Willassssssss!!!!!”

Myrcy sucked in a breath to call after her, but she knew it was pointless. She would have to save them both, because they would definitely fall into the sea somehow.

“Arya, Gendry, go back to the house or you’ll scare everyone. Please?” she begged but tried so sound all knightly like Aunt Brienne.

Arya had enough sense to nod.

Myrcy spun to follow the ghost lovers, but a wave came in, and the wind picked up some crap in it and flung it at her. She tripped and toppled into the wet sand. Her ankle _burned_.

“Ow! Fricking frick, by the gods!” She scrambled to detach herself from whatever was on her ankle, but it was sticky and felt like Briann. Gross.

“Gendry! Pee on it, quick!” Arya screeched.

“That’s for jellyfish!”

Myrcy stared at her ankle, and what she saw was more horrifying that Marg’s post-banging sweat-glow.

It was a squid.

Okay, like some kind of baby squid, but still. A _squid_. On her.

“Get it off get it off get it off!” She shouted, rolling in the sand.

Arya hopped over and grabbed the baby squid, and she threw it into the sea where it belonged.

“I think it poisoned me!” Myrcy shouted again. “It _hurtsssss_!”

Gendry came over, too, staring at her ankle as if he could actually see anything. “Probably twisted it. Can you walk?”

“I don’t _knowwwwww_!” She groaned, sitting up and accepting Arya’s hand.

It really did hurt. She wasn’t even being weird about the squid. “Ow!”

Gendry nodded matter of factly. “Get in the boat. We’ll haul you back.”

“I can’t carry half a boat with a whole girl in it!” Arya screeched.

“Thought you was stronger than four people, Arie?” Gendry winked.

“Dumbass,” Arya muttered.

A shadow passed over short Arya’s short figure. A strong, tanned hand came out of nowhere and offered itself to her.

“Allow me to help, yes?”

Oh…noooooo. Nooooooooo! It was a sexy Dornish voice. He would see her at her worst, soaked to the skin and mottled and hair everywhere with sand and seaweed in it, and stinking like squid with a puffy ankle!

Trystane not-Martell. Help!

She looked up as the stormlight illuminated only his sexy guylined eyes. He was soaked, too, but his Oyster Shack shirt just clung to him. Dornishly.

“What…what are you doing here?” she breathed.

He nodded, so serious and hot. “I came to look for you. I was worried about your innocent beauty being lost in the storm, and I followed the shouting.”

“Because I’m loud!” She shouted.

He smiled so hotly. “I like it. I’m glad I found you.”

Arya glared at beautiful Trystane. “What even _are_ you?”

Gendry kicked sand this time. He was frowning and reached back to grip the hilt of his weird sword that was always strapped to his back. “He’s from _Dorne_. Nobody likes ‘em ‘cause they’re grudgy and smell like weird fruit.”

“This is true.” Trystane nodded, unoffended.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Myrcy tried to be sensible. “The storm’s getting even worse, and Sansa and Willas are out there somewhere!”

“I told you, get in the boat!” Gendry repeated.

Trystane looked at the rowboat and nodded again. Without even asking, he lifted Myrcy up into the air as if she weighed the same as that baby squid, and he set her on the seat of the boat so gently she barely felt the wooden seat. It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her. She felt delirious.

“Now we go,” Trystane demanded, ready to lift half the boat.

Gendry picked up the other, and she was suddenly in the air, on a little like an ancient princess. Just like Chapter 11 when Quil had been carried into the city by the enemy spies!

“Hey wait, I wanna!” Arya yelled, climbing up Gendry like a tree and plopping into the boat. The boys stumbled only a little.

 

* * *

 

Sansa skittered along the wet sand like a tiny bird, her poet dress ripped and flapping in the wind like her hair. She could _see_ him, ahead of her and slowly dying.

She knew then. No matter what he had done to her, she would never love another. Not even love another like she loved Willas. Just…at all. She’d be ded of feelz. Or just dead.

She would accept any further amount of pain if only he would change his mind and take her back after she had been a total bitch. He’d _hurt_ her so! But he was suffering, too. She could tell because of all the blood.

All she wanted was a castle and some poems written on napkins, and babies and dresses and epic love!

“Willassssssss!” She screamed into the wind. “My Willassssssss!”

Her ghastly ghostly poet lover love heard her! He stopped wandering around and slipped in the sand near the water, and she ran until she smacked right into him and fell over his twig legs.

“Willasss!!!!!”

“Sansaaaa!!!” he wailed.

They tangled together, and he wrapped himself all around her and rolled her over until she was half-buried in the gross nasty sand, and he was there blocking the storm from killing her.

“Sansaaaaaa,” he breathed across her face. “I love you for real. Actually for real.”

“I love you for really real toooooo!” she wailed.

He kissed her as the angry water crashed over them.

 

* * *

 

Tyrion stopped his jog in front of the beached supply crate.

Tysha cocked her head. “Are they trying to reenact that old movie with the sexy snog on the beach?”

“It’s failing epically.” He grimaced at his own use of the word ‘epically, and at the weird grossness of Willas Tyrell and Sansa Stark snogging with half-open mouths as seaweed looked like it was strangling them.

Tysha marched over to the hormone-plagued pair. “You’ve got to get inside! Confess your love later!”

Tyrion grabbed what should be the collar of Willas’ poet shirt, but it was a saggy stretch of wilted linen. “Get off her! Down boy!”

Between them, Tyrion and Tysha managed to get the gross ones to stand up, but they were still out of their minds with…whatever they were on.

“I will not seek safety until I _know_ that nothing will ever keep us apart again!” Willas declared.

Tyrion really had no idea why. He really didn’t. He hated everything about whatever this was, and he sort of hated Willas Tyrell, but Tysha had provoked some kind of disgusting soft streak in him.

He had an extra tourist-shop ring in his pocket. He’d just grabbed whatever could be found, and this one was some kind of round brass hardware. Like a sink gasket or something. He fished it out, and handed it to Willas. “Here. Get this fuckery over with.”

Willas gazed at the sink gasket in awe. Sansa tried to collapse but Tysha said, “No. Stop it.”

Willas grabbed the sink gasket and sank too one knee on the nasty sand as the wind made it almost impossible to see.

“Sansa Stark, marry me basically at once or at soon as can be managed considering the demands of our family lines. Because I want to be with you forever, even in tax season, and when I’m too ugly to burn wood anymore.”

Tysha leaned over to Tyrion. “Is that some kind of nasty euphemism?”

Tyrion choked. “This time, I don’t think so.”

Sansa Stark wailed out into the sea and probably summoned a gaggle of porpoises or something. “You will always burn wood in my heart! Yes, _yesssssss_!”

Willas hopped up and shoved the gasket onto Sansa’s finger, even though it was too loose and she had to clench her fist to keep it on. They snogged. It was gross.

Tysha leaned down again. “You know what I think, Tyrion Lannister?”

Tyrion closed his eyes and sighed. He knew what was coming. “What, Tysha Lannister?”

“I think you’re a big softy.” She laughed and kissed his cheek.

“I think you might be right. I’m horrified.”

 

* * *

 

Tommen watched Olenna Tyrell cut cheese into very small cubes uniform in dimension.

Ser Pounce did not like her much. She was a very demanding octogenarian who did not demonstrate an appreciation for chickenkind.

“You going to sit there and be haughty the whole storm, or do you want a go at Cyvasse?” Grandfather Selwyn baited her.

He liked doing that. Tommen liked watching him.

“I bet little Tom-boy can beat you. Can’t you Tom?” Grandfather Selwyn continued.

Tommen contemplated. She seemed very smart and observational. She would make a worthy opponent. He nodded. “I believe so.”

Olenna Tyrell’s wrinkled mouth broke into a smile. “How can I refuse?”

Grandfather Selwyn arranged the board and the pieces.

A flash of lightning unzipped the sky and made  the Lizard jump and hit his lizard head on the roof of the cat crate. He was very afraid of storms, and he had been trying to run off into the horrible outside world, so Grandfather Selwyn had put him in Gatehouse Ami’s crate, and Gatehouse Ami in a sling he had made from Aunt Brienne’s coat. The two cats had thankfully ceased their magnetic squirming, but Tommen had read that it was normal mating behavior.

Thunder crashed then. Everybody jumped. Tommen wanted Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne and Myrcy to come back, because it was not safe out there. He kept looking at the window even though it was covered by shutters.

Another thunder crash. The door swung open and slammed against the wall.

In the light of the doorway, a shadowy figure was outlined, tall and threatening.

Grandfather Selwyn looked alarmed and jumped up, grabbing a fireplace poker. Olenna Tyrell took a miniature firearm from her sleeve.

Tommen was not afraid. He knew who it was.

“Hello, Grandfather Tywin.”

 


	12. In Which There is a Set of Clones, an Heir Arrangement, and a Cave

 

Jaime kept hold of Brienne’s hand despite the battering rain and ever-increasing rubbish whipping through the air. His gut felt almost as unsettled as the foliage. He worried about Myrcy being outside, and Sansa for being outside and clueless, and even Margaery for being outside, clueless, and a Tyrell. Not to mention all the others, who, regardless of  _ not _ being their responsibility, sort of…were. Nobody other than Selwyn was going to watch out for them, that was clear.

His thoughts seemed to manifest a group of soaked people right in front of them. They halted.

“Oh my gods, I think even my porcelain pores are drowning,” Loras Tyrell heaved.

“Get inside, all of you!” Brienne commanded. “Our house is closer than Dad’s. Go.”

Loras shook his head. “I’ve got to get back to Grandmother. She eats too much cheese, and it’s bad for her cholesterol. She won’t listen, so I usually replace most of it with cubes of tofu dusted with nutritional yeast.”

Jaime watched as Podrick Payne’s usually cheerful, round face elongated in a horrified grimace.

Brienne frowned which somehow conveyed even more disgust. “I may not be even a half-decent cook, but that is not real food.”

Loras shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do!” He started to slog off toward Tarth manor.

Renly huffed a sigh. “Your brother and that girl person went down to the beach because Sansa ran off like a typical northerner. Bye!”

That left Podrick who held four horseshoes in his hand. “I didn’t want to leave these on the grass in case someone might step on them.”

So  _ that’s _ why Loras and Renly weren’t clomping anymore. Was the non-trend finally dead? One could hope.

“You can go back,” Pod said. “I should be the one to find Mr. Tyrion anyway.”

Brienne shook her head. “That’s very responsible, Podrick, but I know the area better than you ever will. As such a responsible person, could you return to the house and help with the _ twenty-one _ animals? We’ll find Tyrion and Tysha.”

Pod nodded. “Alright. Whatever I can do.” He dashed off, too.

“I like Podrick Payne,” she said. “He seems relatively sane.”

“Give him a few days,” Jaime laughed.

She led him down to the beach where the water was no longer sapphire blue but a dark, churning gray. The sand was wet almost up to the phallic log.

There was another sodden group heading toward them. Jaime was relieved to spot Tyrion seemingly uninjured.

“We found the worst ones!” Tysha said gleefully.

Willas Tyrell and Sansa Stark struggled to make it across the sand as it appeared they had merged into one entity. One sopping, open-mouthed, blathering entity where Sansa’s left foot was planted on top of Willas’ right, and Willas’ left foot on Sansa’s right as Willas clutched her to his bandaged chest. Jaime squinted and thought he saw the edge of the duct tape migrating over to Sansa’s neck. It was more disgusting that yeast-dusted tofu.

“The world is a wondrous basin of undying soul-love and practical life skills!” Willas shouted to the heavens.

“I’m going to be a thorny princess in a low-rent love shack!” Sansa wailed quite happily.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “They’re engaged. It’s my fault.”

Jaime looked at Brienne, and she was already looking at him. They seemed to be doing that a lot lately. She burst out laughing. So did he.

“Of course they’re engaged. We should have anticipated what the stupidest thing to happen in the middle of terrible storm might be, and prepared for that.” Jaime shook his head.

“Speaking of storms…” Tyrion grabbed a flying twig from the air as if it were a fly, and he poked Sansa’s back. “Girl, where is Myrcy? She was following you.”

Sansa lifted her head from the crook of Willas’ neck, her eyes slightly glazed over. She pointed at the sky. Willas smiled fondly at her and gently pushed her arm down until it pointed in an actual direction.

Brienne seemed to collect herself, or at least faked it well. “We’ll get Myrcy. You really need to get out of this, all of you. Go up to the rental, not Dad’s. There are blankets and supplies in the upstairs hall closet.”

Tysha smiled and stepped back to place a gentle hand on Sansa’s arm to encourage the love-lump to move forward.

Tyrion developed a gleam in his eye. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”

He skipped ahead as the others in his group followed. Jaime turned just enough to watch his brother shuffle up the wet sandbank in the direction of their soon-to-be actual summer house. His unformed suspicion soon…formed.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered. “He’s going to pay for this.”

“What’s wrong?” Brienne nudged him to keep going in the direction of Sansa’s inept point.

He squeezed her hand tighter. “We don’t have a lock on our bedroom in this house.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “No!”

“Yes. He’s definitely going to have sex in our bed. I’m going to burn it. I’m sorry we’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

“I’ll help you, and we’ve still got that sleeping bag.” The back of her neck flushed instantly.

When this was all over, he would start thinking about renovations to the summer house, which would now definitely include a rooftop alcove. With a lock on the door. Of course, he had to buy the summer house first.

 

* * *

 

The rowboat had enough water in it to make Myrcy’s toes all white and wrinkly, even though she kept bailing it out with her cupped hands. Arya was at the front shouting orders, and poor Gendry and  _ Trystane _ were grunting hard and starting to bend over weird.

“There it is! The barn!” Arya yelled.

They had made it! Okay, not  _ all _ the way, but she was shocked that they’d made it to the barn. She’d thought the boys, well Trystane wasn’t a  _ boy _ ...he was...something. Well, she thought they would collapse from the weight of manly responsibility and also two girls and a boat.

It was raining so hard there was no way they could get up to Grandfather Selwyn’s, but at least the barn had a solid roof and was closer than the summer house. The little asses would keep them warm!

Arya hopped out, making Gendry grunt, and she slid the barn door open. There were those battery camp-lantern things on inside, hanging from the posts, and as Gendry and Trystane finally set the boat down in the middle, she saw that there were  _ no  _ little asses in the barn. Or chickens!

There  _ was _ a bunch of wet, shivering people.

“It’s a relief to see you. Your Uncles were worried!”

“Why are you in a boat?”

“Who’s  _ that _ ?”

“Hey!” Renly shouted to Loras. “You can’t want to know who  _ that _ is!!!! I’m  _ wounded _ !”

“You got scratched from a flying twig!” Loras rolled his eyes. 

“There’s  _ blood _ , Lor.  _ Blood _ . And I’m soaked to the skin, and I don’t even feel hot right now.” Renly pouted. 

“We’re all soaked to the skin. Everyone is. And you’re always hot.” Loras winked at Renly. Uncle Renly. Uncle Renly? That didn’t sound right. 

“You couldn’t make it back to the house?” Myrcy took in the group’s wet-dog appearance. 

That Podrick boy who seemed really nice shrugged with a funny little smile. “We were moving...slowly. I suggested we wait in here.”

Loras and Renly always moved slowly unless they were practicing choreography or heading to a semi-annual sale. Myrcy nodded. “That makes sense.”

Loras glanced at  _ Trystane _ . “I might want to experiment with some guyliner. On you.”

Renly pouted. “Fine. But  _ he’s  _ not that great.”

“Hey!” Myrcy shouted. “He’s my secret Dornish oyster napkin flirterer and he’s pretty and big and strong and can carry me in a boat like chapter 9!”

“You think I’m  _ pretty _ ?” Trystane drawled, climbing into the boat and sitting opposite her.

“Hey! Gendry carried you, too, and  _ me _ , and he’s prettier and bigger and stronger! Dumbass!” Arya stomped off and started smacking the barn posts with a stick.

“Hey! Why is everyone in my boat!” Gendry sat on a bale of hale, rubbing his shoulder.

“I wish I could text your Uncles, but there’s no service,” Podrick Payne lamented. He was so quiet and sort of nice, and she felt a little sorry he was there and not somewhere less shouty.

“How are there  _ three _ ?” some voice from the corner shouted. “ _ Three _ of us! How?!?!!”

“Three of what? Dumbasses?” Arya continued beating on things.

“Three of…of  _ us _ !” The voice said.

Myrcy squinted to try and see the dark corner more easily. Oh, it was that weird septon! Come to think of it, he  _ did _ look a lot like an older Gendry, and Gendry looked a lot like Renly. Apparently, Renly looked a lot like her father had when he was younger. Her birth father, not her current Uncle-father.

“Hey!” She shouted. “Come of there septon…whatever, and go stand under that lantern.” She pointed. “Renly, you go too, and Gendry.”

“I don’t want to stand up anymore today,” Renly drawled.

“Please? A favor for your niece?” she grinned at him.

“That’s a beautiful smile on a beautiful face,” Trystane oozed the words.

Myrcy slid backwards over the seat and landed in the sloshy bottom. “He…oh…help!”

“You’re my niece?” Renly asked with a scrunched-up face. “Oh  _ yeah _ ! I always forget that!”

“That’s because you’re basically a Tyrell,” Loras offered. “Go stand. I want to see, too.”

“Fine, fine.” Renly lurched up and stood next to the septon, and Gendry grumbled but complied.

“Whoa…” she breathed.

“What?”

“How?”

“Clones!” Arya shouted.

Renly, and Gendry, and the septon really,  _ really _ looked like each other. Podrick Payne snapped a photo on his phone.

Arya dragged Gendry away. “That’s creepy. Let’s snog.”

The septon glared at Renly as if he had personally chosen to offend him.

Loras stared at Renly, too. “So…this is…odd.”

Renly moved to see Podrick’s photo, and he scowled, then looked at the septon. “Hey, what’s your name?”

The septon stood tall and haughty. “Septon Edric Storm.”

Renly’s scowl turned into an appraisal. “Who’s your father?”

Septon Edric was the one to scowl now. “I can’t see how that’s any of your business, but if you must perversely know to assuage your sinner’s curiosity, I don’t know.”

Renly glanced at Loras, then at the corner where Arya and Gendry gone to gross-snog on hay bales. “Hey, Gendry? Who’s your father?”

Snogging noises paused for a sec. “M’father? Oh, I don’t know. Never did. M’mother’s a waitress as the casino.”

Renly  _ stared _ at Loras. “Oh my gods.”

Myrcy’s mind was racing. How could these three random tools from random places look so much alike? Why would Renly ask about their fathers? And they all looked like  _ her _ father…

She jumped up, but tripped over the side of the boat, moaning from the slight pain in her ankle. Trystane caught her and settled her back onto the boat seat, sitting next to her this time. He tucked her gross seaweed hair behind her ear. “There are many dead rose petals under this boat, like a gothic sea. Very sad, very beautiful. Like you.”

“I’m not sad!” she shouted.

“No? Good. I hate to see you sad.” His big brown guylined eyes peered all the way into her pituitary.

She bit her lip, but not in a sexy way, she knew. More…a  _ help _ sort of way. “Who  _ are _ you?”

He shrugged. “Just a waiter.”

She blinked but also remembered her incredible revelation. She turned to Renly and the septon. “I think I get it!”

Renly looked at Loras, and she thought she saw concern in his eyes.

“It’s Uncle Stannis! He’s like…boning everyone everywhere!”

Renly’s face cleared. Loras choked on a laugh. The septon gasped. Gendry was oblivious. Podrick Payne just sat there not looking at anybody.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t an emergency barn, but at least they weren’t going to die!

Marg Sank back against the wall of the distillery and sucked in a deep breath of the tart grapeberry air. Was it their fault if the doors weren’t locked? She didn’t know how to read that map, and apparently, neither did Dickon.

Ahhhhh, Dickon. It was not that she was  _ in love _ . She was  _ not _ . But she wasn’t in  _ lust _ either. It was more…in…thrall? Enchanted? Dickmatized?

He was tending to the six white horses that could  _ just _ fit in the weird paths between big round vats of grapeberry cordial. Marg did not know precisely how it was not just  _ wine _ . She watched Dickon and big fuckhot muscles pulse under his nice tanned skin. Hopefully she wouldn’t get bored of him anytime soon, because it was going to be so much work to hide him from Grandmother. She was insistent that Marg remain free of distractions until she was out of business school, and even then, Grandmother’s list of acceptable consorts was small at best. Most of them just weren’t hot at all!

Dickon finished tying up the last horse so it couldn’t get near the cordial vats and get drunk. He patted it on its horsy butt and sauntered over to her.

“Wanna bone?” he asked with such serious longing in his eyes.

“Really a lot!” she tackled him and went straight to the snogging.

The distillery door slammed open, and Marg startled. She bit Dickon’s lip.

“Ouch! That was hot.” Dickon wiped his kinda bloody lip with the back of his hand.

“Oy, is that a burglar back there?” asked a voice.

“You’re the burglar!” Marg called.

“Oh. Right. Hey, is this place deathproof?” The door closed against the gross wind.

Two guys shuffled around a cordial vat. It was Danwell, and the Lannister pilot. What was his name…Toaster?

“Hey, Danwell! I’m glad you’re not dead! What are you doing out here?” She tried to smile her most businesslike, impersonal yet benevolent smile.

“We was sent to find  _ you _ ! I won’t get fired now!” Danwell grinned happily.

“Hey look, cordial!” Toaster approached a vat and dipped in one of those taster ladle things. “Oh, this the best some-kinda-wine I’ve ever had!”

“Lemme have some!” Danwell moved to Toaster.

“Boys, would you mind very much if you just parked yourselves there with the wine vat? Because we’re going to bone over here. Or maybe back there, in the corner. Either way.” Marg was prepared to negotiate and offer three days paid leave and a pay increase to woo Toaster over to the Tyrell side.

Unfortunately, they were too easy. “Yeah, sure. We’re good, right Hosteen?”

“Yep. Had to sit through a lot worse than that with Mr. Tyrion!”

“Good to hear! Have all the cordial you want since there’s nobody here to stop you!” Marg took Dickon’s hand and dragged him to the farthest corner. One of the horses stared right at them, but it didn’t seem interested.

“Dickon, let’s bone hard, and then I’m going to have to teach you how to be a secret consort.”

 

* * *

 

“If Lannisters did not insist on such dramatic entrances, the hinge would not be broken,” Olenna Tyrell insisted.

“It’s just a hinge!” Grandfather Selwyn insisted, rifling through a drawer to find a screwdriver.

“One would assume that the doors of an important noble manor would be better maintained,” Grandfather Tywin insisted.

“You do know what they say about those who assume, Tywin, hmm?” Olenna smirked.

Tommen was exasperated. There had been nothing but bickering between Olenna and Grandfather Tywin, with Grandfather Selwyn trying to diffuse the situation to no avail.

“Forced to wrangle your wayward grandchildren again, Olenna?” Grandfather Tywin seethed.

“I could say the same, but I don’t believe that’s why you’re here,” Olenna countered. “Why  _ are _ you here? And if I might ask, how did you get here in this weather?”

“Lannisters have ways and owe no explanation to anyone, particularly a Tyrell.”

Olenna leaned toward Grandfather Tywin on the giant sectional. “Come now, we both know that you would grow bored out of your hawkish mind if I weren’t in the city to challenge you. What other opponents do you have?”

“You got a submarine?” Grandfather Selwyn chuckled. “Can’t see any other way of getting over here in this gall.”

Grandfather Tywin peered up at Grandfather Selwyn, expressionless.

He turned back to Olenna. “It’s clear you haven’t the mental acumen to entertain yourself without real estate to handle, so I’ll take pity for once. I came because I was informed that one of my idiot sons got a Quiet Isle Twenty-Four Hour Sept marriage license. That is quite as horrible as it sounds, so I’m sure you can understand why I must put a stop to whatever is brewing.”

Olenna stared at Grandfather Tywin. “I do hope it’s already happened, if only for the sake of my entertainment upon witnessing the look on your face.”

“And why are  _ you _ here if not for your grandchildren? Trying to plant your poison concrete seed on yet another choice plot of land, Olenna?” Grandfather Tywin prodded.

“Tried and failed, and quite happy to for once.” Olenna looked at Grandfather Selwyn. “Do you want to tell him? I would love the privilege, but I’m not about to beg.”

Grandfather Selwyn stood up, and even though his back was turned to Tommen, he could see that Grandfather Selwyn was possibly  _ more _ exasperated than he, Tommen, was.

He held up a screwdriver and shook it in the direction of the two strange older people. “Now see here, Mr. Pomp and Madam Circumstance, this is  _ my  _ house on  _ my _ island, and I could get you both kicked off in about half a minute if I weren’t such a good-natured hilarious fellow. I’m thinking my girl Brienne isn’t going to be too pleased to hear how you’ve been sniping away in the presence of Tom-boy here.”

Grandfather Tywin stood up. “What does  _ her _ opinion of  _ my  _ heir matter? They are not blood.”

“You’ve dug quite a grave this time, Tywin.” Olenna rested her chin on one hand and waited with a grin on her wizened face.

Grandfather Selwyn was…mad. Tommen had never seen him display negative emotion beyond annoyance at one of the Tyrells.

“On every level that matters, my Brienne is that boy’s mother whether you like it or not, and that means that boy is  _ my _ grandson now, too, and I’m not going to let him sit here and hear your nasty malarkey again. You hear me?”

“He is  _ my _ heir!” Grandfather Tywin roared.

Tommen was unaffected. He was surprised, actually, as he performed an introspective examination of his feelings. Myrcy always said that family was not only blood. Tommen’s classification of the genus of the Lannistarths placed Grandfather Selwyn above Grandfather Tywin in terms of importance to mental and physical wellbeing and desirable genetics.

“I do wish you would all stop arguing, as you are behaving like adolescent girls, or Willas Tyrell, or male cats which have caught the scent of a female cat in heat during the height of the lunar calendar.” Tommen stared up at his two grandfathers and stroked Ser Pounce’s soft fur.

They broke their animalistic stare-challenge and looked down at him.

Tommen continued, because he had  _ quite _ enough, thank you very much. “Grandfather Selwyn is my grandfather and I will not hear any objection to that status from anyone for any reason, because I am set in my opinion of the matter. Grandfather Selwyn is also the owner and representative of all of Tarth. I am not versed in legal or political matters, but I believe it to mean that you have no power here if Grandfather Selwyn does not allow it, and as he tends to cede to Aunt Brienne’s wishes about things related to Lannisters, that means that you, Grandfather Tywin, would have to negotiate with her. If you are mean, she might allow Uncle Jaime to disown your completely.”

Grandfather Tywin began to seethe. That was expected, and Tommen wasn’t done.

“Grandfather Tywin, before you harm your esophagus with rising acid, I would remind you that it is to your disadvantage and yours only to allow Uncle Jaime to disown you. I am aware that you do not like Uncle Tyrion, and because of this, you are least likely to allow one of his potential progeny to become your heir. You have disowned Joffrey yourself, which I believe to be wise as he is sure to continue in a life of crime forever.

“Myrcella has no desire to be your heir. She does not like you, and she hates Mother. There is no hope for you in that direction, though I do not believe you have considered it seriously. That leaves me. It seems clear now that you believe me to be your heir. I am afraid I must decline. I will become a veterinarian specializing in cats, lizards, chickens, and little asses. Possibly parrots. It is my dream, and I will achieve it, and I will have nothing to do with the Lannister empire as it does not sufficiently support orphaned cat charities.

“You therefore have but one option for an heir…Uncle Jaime’s child. Or one of his children since Aunt Brienne is young and healthy enough to have several children and Uncle Jaime is, obvious to one and all, more than willing. Surely even you must see that any of his children will also be Aunt Brienne’s children, and while Uncle Jaime is not currently fond of you and does not trust you, Aunt Brienne would be an immovable wall between you and her children if you do not reform your ways.” Tommen paused to take a breath and allow the Grandfathers and Olenna Tyrell who appeared to be enrapt, to absorb his words.

Finally, “I would like to propose a deal.”

Grandfather Selwyn sank into a big leather chair and chuckled. “That’s my Tom-boy! Told ya he’d beat everyone at Cyvasse.”

Grandfather Tywin’s beady eyes narrowed. “Those are the words of a true heir.”

“Not yours,” Tommen reasserted. “But I have learned from the doings of the Lannisters and even the Tyrells. If you want  _ any _ heir, you must comply with my demands. You will cease interference in any matters related to Uncle Jaime or Uncle Tyrion. They are not your heirs. You will never be mean to or about Aunt Brienne, or her children will not be your heirs. You will never hinder Myrcella’s choices. She is not your heir. Finally, you will do nothing to meddle with  _ my _ plans, as I am not your heir and I will not  _ be _ your heir. If you leave all of us alone, I will ensure that you have an heir with suitable acumen and education. The matter is now in your hands. I have finished.”

Grandfather Tywin glared, then stared, then peered. He cocked his head. He scowled just a little.

He nodded. “I get the first boy.”

Grandfather Selwyn jumped up. “Now see here, I need an heir, too, and I mean no hurt on you, Tom-boy, or on little sapling, but blood rules can be real stupid, and I have no control over that.  I need a kiddo with Tarth blood. Otherwise, this here island will end up with somebody like Tarthsley or Alyston, or even worse…you!” He pointed to Olenna.

It was a horrifying thought.

People like Grandfather Tywin made those rules, and people like Olenna Tyrell took advantage of them. People like Grandfather Selwyn kept things nice for everybody else.

Tommen nodded. “I will also select a suitable heir for Tarth who will carry on the Tarth name.”

Olenna cackled gleefully. “What if they only have one child and you have the  _ same heir _ ? Oh, this is marvelous entertainment.”

Grandfather Tywin and Grandfather Selwyn glared at each other.

Tommen was not concerned. He knew who he lived with. “Are we settled? I will expect a binding contract.”

 

* * *

 

Brienne knew too late that they were going the wrong way. Why they had trusted Sansa or Willas at  _ all _ was beyond her. She would blame it on circumstance and hormones.

The storm had only grown worse. They shouldn’t be out, but how could she accept leaving Myrcy somewhere?

Jaime crept closer as they trudged through the wet sand. “Brienne, stop!”

“No!”

“Yes.” He spun her to look at him, forcing her to be still. “I’m as worried as you are, but Myrcy is not down this way. We can’t find everyone, there’s isn’t time, and I won’t risk  _ you _ , too. Get back to the house. I’ll keep looking.”

“You think I’ll leave you out here? It’s actually dangerous now!” She once again didn’t know what to do.

As if to prove her point, as tree fell from the place that marked the transition of beach to woods, slapping against the wet sand. They both jumped.

Jaime sighed. “It feels like giving up, but I don’t think we’re going to find her in this.”

Brienne felt like crying a little. “I know.”

“She’s a smart girl. She would have found shelter, and for all we know we just missed her and she’s back at the house.”

She could tell that Jaime was trying to convince himself as much as he was her. “She’s a smart girl, yes, but she’s naive. She gets caught up in the moment. Jaime. I’m  _ worried _ .”

His usually-beautiful mouth twisted into a scowl. “I know.”

Thunder cracked again. They were soaked to the skin, and all Brienne’s experience with storms was telling her to get the bloody hells inside. They could barely see and walked so slowly they’d never find Myrcy on the beach even if she were ten feet from them. Was it giving up if there was no chance? It still felt like it.

But the baby…

She was  _ worried _ . She couldn’t risk getting hit by a tree branch or whatever other rubbish was flying around in the wind. There really were a  _ lot _ of new things to think about!

She made a decision and held onto Jaime’s arm tightly, guiding them along the beach as the woods next to them turned into the rocky side of a hill, then a cliff. She almost missed the narrow entrance to the cave, but sensory memory helped as she dragged her fingers along the rocks.

The crevice was pitch black. Jaime pulled out a pocket flashlight, and she could see the inclined path that led up to her favorite hiding spot as a child. She wanted to laugh since  _ this _ was supposed to be there destination the whole day. This was where she was supposed to tell him. Now it offered shelter.

It was dry and dusty inside, but almost quiet. She spotted the remnants of some of her old chalk drawings on the walls.

A little yelp sounded, and Jaime pointed the flashlight beam in its direction.

A dog was huddled against a wall, shivering and frightened. It wasn’t large, but it looked hardy if not slightly ill-fed. There was no visible collar either.

“The poor thing,” Jaime murmured, smiling at it without showing teeth.

He handed her the flashlight and crept toward it, muttering compliments. “What a beauty! Such big brown eyes! Do you want a little scratch on your head?”

“It might bite,” she whispered.

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Jaime continued his wooing, and to her surprise not at all, it whimpered and began to inch toward him.

Even dogs understood his charisma. It was sickening.

She was suddenly just  _ tired _ . She chose the part of the wall that had been her favorite place to read, where the stone was more rounded and comfortable to lean against, and she slid down to sit on the dusty floor.

He hadn’t seen it yet. The last clue envelope was taped to the wall behind him, bulging with her secret that wasn’t at all a secret anymore.

The dog was sufficiently wooed in mere minutes. Jaime sank to the floor, and the dog climbed up into his lap contentedly. She watched them, the man all smiles and soft words as if speaking to a child, and the dog eating it up.

It made  _ her  _ smile. He was so at ease like this, in a dirty cave holding a dirty dog.

Then she frowned. She knew where this was going, because everything like this always went the same way.

“Jaime…” she warned.

He looked up, guileless and wearing an expression that exactly resembled one of Tommen’s. “What?”

“Jaime, no.”

“Jaime, what?” He repeated, smirking.

“It belongs to someone,” she tried, not much energy behind it though.

“I don’t think it…” he examined the dog’s belly, “ _ he _ does. He’s skinny.”

“ _ If _ he does, he has to go back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She had to grin. There was no other option. “What do you think is going to happen? You’re going to bring it back to the house, and despite your own mind already being set, the first look Tom gets and we’re done.”

“He wants a parrot.” Jaime shrugged, still smiling. The dog licked his arm.

Brienne remembered the stories Jaime had told her of his own childhood, before his mother had died, when he’d loved dogs and horses and being outside, just like her. Tywin had gotten rid of the animals.

“I’m quite sure  _ he _ wouldn’t mind having a dog around.” One would think that adding a dog to the chaos would require more thought, but Brienne had become used to oddities like chickens. What was one dog?

Besides, it already loved Jaime, she could tell. It stared up at him adoringly and settled into a nap. She sighed.

When she was too quiet for too long, he looked at her. She nodded to indicate the wall where her envelope was taped. “We’ve got five minutes.”

His eyes went wide as he saw the envelope. She could almost feel the nerves radiating off him, which was so silly since he knew. This did make it very real though.

The dog didn’t even move as he reached to take the envelope, opening it with his teeth and pulling out the card with the plastic stick taped to it.

He stared at it. He didn’t even blink for a long while.

This would have consumed her with anxiety once, but she could read him. She could narrate exactly what he was thinking if she wanted. Instead, she preferred to stare at him and commit this moment to memory.

Finally, he read the card. She thought he just needed way to remember how to say words before he had to come up with them himself.

 

_ When I was a girl, I dreamed of this. _

  

He was so still, she couldn’t stand it. “I used to come here and draw my dreams on the walls. I’d think about them and try to will them into existence. Seeing you here…it feels like I did.”

He looked at her finally. His stare was as intense as she’d ever seen, moisture there in the corners of his bright green eyes. “I dreamed of you, you know. When I was lonely, which was always, I dreamed of you. There was no face or voice, just a feeling. Then I met you at that brunch with your horrible manager—”

“Hey! Goodwin was great for my career!” She laughed, because she was feeling too weighted down by his stare.

“Thank the gods he retired.” And he was instantly serious again. The dog yawned. “I dreamed of you that night. You had a face and a voice, and the same feeling was there. But it was real. It frightened me. I never told you this. I didn’t know for certain that I wasn’t  _ just  _ dreaming, that I hadn’t somehow inserted your face into my dream because I was pathetic. Then you came to Myrcy’s birthday party. I knew then. I knew it was you.”

She moved away from the wall and scooted clumsily over to him, plastering herself against his body as he wrapped his arms around her. Their wet shirts stuck together. He kissed her forehead, and she lifted her face so it could be a real kiss. This one was different. New. Wonderful.

She stared at him. “I’m pregnant.” Hearing her own voice say the words at last was like coming up for air after diving in the sea.

He smiled, widely and with teeth. “I know!”

She feigned a slap on his arm. The dog grumbled. “When did you know?”

His fingers danced along her clammy arm. “In the barn, when Tommen said that Gatehouse Ami was probably pregnant. I don’t know, it was just instinct.”

“I tried to tell you so many times since then! I didn’t want to wait to get here, but there was never any time,” she complained.

He chuckled his usual chuckle. “There was  _ some _ time. We used it for other things.”

She rested her head back on his shoulder. “So we did. We do that a lot. I think that might be why I’m pregnant.”

“Is that how it works? I had no idea.”

“Perhaps Ser Pounce can teach you a thing or two.” She set aside her worry for Myrcy and just  _ stuff _ in general and tried to keep this special moment for themselves. Just them. “When I was a girl here and I had all those dreams, I had a really horrible name picked out for my child.”

“I definitely want to know.” He stole little nips along her jaw and her ear.

She enunciated perfectly and somberly. “Quentyn.”

“Oh, that’s  _ bad _ . Really really bad.”

“I know. I apologize. Even Trunksley is better.”

He was silent for a moment. “Hmm. Quentyn is terrible for a tall blonde child, but it’s not so terrible for a dog.”

She grimaced. “Quentyn the dog?”

He nodded, his chin brushing her hair. “Quentyn the dog.”

She looked down at the wiry little napper who was now snoring in Jaime lap. She shrugged. “Quentyn the dog.”

It had been  _ named _ .

 

 


	13. In Which There is a Dressy Mishap, a Carnival of Animals, and, at last, a Real Epic Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. 
> 
> Mostly. 
> 
> Fine, there's an epilogue. I just can't quit you, OTP. 
> 
> Mikki has endured the growth spurts of this whole thing, and for that, she is a true Knight of the Seven...corners of fandom.

 

The light on the beach was perfect. Reds and blues together, and golds, too, making all the broken pieces of shell and sand sparkle. How could the world be so beautiful when everything and all the things were in ruin?

Myrcy stood outside Grandfather Selwyn’s house, hobbling on one good foot. Two or three tiny tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. She didn’t know where Uncle Jaime or Aunt Brienne or Marg were, and even if everyone could be found and nobody was bleeding, all the work for the epic wedding historic event to end all epic wedding historic events was for naught. Nothing epic could be made from shredded shrubs and dangling tree branches, and sand that probably hid an army of creepy baby squid out to get them.

She grimaced and reached down to adjust the ice pack Grandfather Selwyn had tied around her ankle, which was swollen and purple and looked nasty like some kind of un-scaly greyscale of doom.

She had asked to be alone. Like fifty people had wanted to wait out there with her, and braid her hair (Sansa), or make her tea (Aunt Tysha), or flirt right at her grimace-y face ( _ Trystane _ ) _.  _ Tommen knew better. He was the only one who could read her when she was really super sad, except maybe for Aunt Brienne.

It wasn’t  _ just _ the ruined wedding. Or the missing persons and possible storm injuries.

Grandfather Tywin was  _ there _ , and he was brooding even more than usual when she saw him, which wasn’t often anymore, but still. He didn’t brood like Willas or Sansa’s weird cousin-brother or even Tommen’s chickens who brooded with  _ emotions _ . Grandfather Tywin brooded with... _ menace _ . Tommen was getting a parrot just because he was cute. He’d told her not to worry about Grandfather Tywin, because he, Tommen, had him under control. Myrcy didn’t have the energy to question it. She was limp and useless and full of no things, no things and nothing epic.

Sansa was engaged. Like…an  _ adult _ . Sure, she was legally old enough or whatever, but that wasn’t supposed to happen for like ten years! Or twenty! It had been an hour since the storm calmed enough for a bunch of people to make it to Tarth manor, and Olenna Tyrell had spent the whole time arguing with Willas about unwise matches and premature obligation. She’d just given up since Willas had kept snogging Sansa anyway.

At least she, Sansa, had come up for air enough to notice how upset Myrcy was, but Myrcy just wasn’t in the mood for therapy braiding. She hadn’t even mocked Trystane and even suggested that maybe Myrcy should talk to him. What was even happening?

Uncle Tyrion and Aunt Tysha had been boning. Myrcy could tell that, even though she was always the last to figure out the boning signs. It was pretty obvious this time, considering how Uncle Tyrion’s shirt was now on backward.

Grandfather Tywin hadn’t said a word. Maybe he was  _ sick. _ Maybe the brooding menace had given him stomach acid or gluten allergies. Grandfather Selwyn passed out biscuits and grinned weirdly at Grandfather Tywin. They probably had extra gluten.

Loras had made Renly and Gendry and the septon continue to stand in a row and parade themselves in front of everyone in the house. So far, nobody had said anything about her brilliant deduction concerning wayward Uncle Stannis.

Arya was painting herself as Olenna, wrinkly skin and all. The little asses had gotten very scared, so Tommen had put them in Grandfather Selwyn’s various Tarth-themed tee shirts. They looked so epically cute with their bow ties that she thought they should be used on the tourist brochures. The chickens had pooped everywhere, except for Hodorella who had apparently eaten some kind of weird yeasty tofu and was constipated. Or so Tommen had explained. Myrcy still wasn’t sure which one was Hodorella.

As the “outsiders” according only to them, Podrick Payne and Trystane were testing some app called ‘Cleganebowl.’ It seemed bloody. And gross. Not even something she could talk about on ViewTube.

So Myrcy was very, very upset, because nobody else seemed to realize that there wasn’t going to be anything magical happening, and everything was changing… _ again!.... _ and things just weren’t going well!  She hated it when things changed.

Then she saw them coming up the beach path. They weren’t dead! Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne weren’t dead! That was  _ something _ good at last!

She wanted to run down to meet them, but her ankle was really just too hurty, so she waved with both arms instead. “Hey! O-M-G you’re alive!” The waving and standing on one foot wasn’t a good thing and she crashed into the porch rail, but it didn’t matter because they were  _ alive _ .

They had been talking and holding hands, and…was that a dog with them? Their heads snapped up as she shouted, and then Uncle Jaime just took off and was running faster than she’d ever seen him run, and then he was right there. She found herself being spun around and around, and she wound her arms around his dusty neck to hold on. She buried her face on his shoulder and she was  _ not _ going to cry.

Soon, there were more arms around her, and Aunt Brienne was there, and she still smelled nice even though she was covered in chalky dust, too.

“We were so worried,” Uncle Jaime whispered into her hair. And maybe she  _ was  _ going to cry. A little.

“I was worried about  _ you _ !” Myrcy shouted.

“I told him you are a smart girl and would be okay, but don’t ever leave my sight again,” Aunt Brienne murmured as she smoothed Myrcy’s horrible seaweed hair away from her face.

The screen door wheezed open, and Tommen hopped out, all by himself with no animals strapped to his skinny body.

He stopped very close to their family blob, but not quite touching. “I am very glad to see you both without bloodstains everywhere.”

Aunt Brienne immediately picked him up like he weighed no more than Ser Pounce, and he buried his face in  _ her _ shoulder. Myrcy hugged them both, and Uncle Jaime hugged them all.

“I love our weird little family,” Uncle Jaime laughed.

Aunt Brienne raised her head and looked at Uncle Jaime in that silent communication thing they always did. He nodded and then grinned down at her. Myrcy. Her.

Aunt Brienne cleared her throat. “Tom, I know you  _ know _ because you…learned…from cats. But Myrcy, we have something to tell you, particularly when it’s just  _ us _ and not all the other people who are somehow always involved but have nothing to do with any of it.”

Myrcy could tell it wasn’t something  _ bad _ , but still, she was nervous. It meant more change, she was sure! She hated change!

“Myrcy…” Aunt Brienne seemed to struggle. “Well, you’re going to be a big sister. Again. I mean, I’m going to have a baby. I mean…”

Myrcy phased out. Her brain went off to the far north where things were frozen and there were probably still creepy weird blue zombie ghosts hiding in caves or something.

What’s that now? Some words happened. There were words. Definitely, she was sure.

Uncle Jaime frowned a little, she could see, even though her eyes were crossed, and she was panting or something, and she couldn’t feel her sore ankle much anymore for reasons of leaving the ice on too long and probably nerves.

“Do you not  _ want _ to be a big sister again? I thought you did?” he sounded so puzzled. She wanted to put him out of his misery, but that would require words.

“Mm, huh, yr, hlp!” she breathed.

“Myrcy, are you okay?” Aunt Brienne asked with great concern.

Tommen blinked. “She hurt her ankle, but Grandfather Selwyn applied first aid, even though Myrcy is not obeying the correct order of rest, ice, compression, elevation. She is only doing the ice part. Otherwise, I believe her to be ded of feelz.”

Uncle Jaime blinked, then his face lit up. “Oh! That makes sense.”

“It does?” Aunt Brienne wrinkled her brow.

She was going to be a big sister again…no…an  _ aunt _ . For real. An  _ aunt _ . Well, cousin, but a sister so  _ aunt. _ It was so grownup, so austere. It was…perfect. This was her destiny, to be the aunt of all the tall awkward babies who would be born into several dynastic legacies, and she, Myrcy, would shape them all into beautiful tall wise nuggets who would benefit all of humanity. That was the job of an  _ aunt _ .

“O-M-G!” She shouted so loud the birds who had just returned to the trees flapped away. “Tall awkward babiieesssssss!!!!!”

The screen door slammed open and Sansa flitted out. “Tall awkward babies?!?!? Where?!??!!”

Myrcy pointed at Brienne’s stomach. “There!”

Sansa looked frozen. “I…I can’t…even.” She fainted into Willas’ arms which arrived just in time to save Sansa from cracking her head open on the porch.

If only Marg were there! Hopefully, she still wasn’t dead.

“Well, that went as well as expected.” Uncle Jaime looked at Aunt Brienne.

She shrugged, still holding Tommen.

“Who is that dog?” he asked, because of course now he’d moved on to much more interesting matters.

“That’s Quentyn the dog.” Uncle Jaime reached down to pat the little thing who seemed maybe a little bit obsessed with him.

“Are we keeping him?” Tommen asked, his tone measured and expressionless, so Myrcy knew he was  _ psyched _ .

Aunt Brienne cleared her throat. “If he doesn’t belong to someone else, which I would  _ expect _ , okay? Then yes. But he probably has an owner.”

The screen door opened  _ again _ . “My girl! And Jaime! Tom-boy! Little sapling! And Walder! Where did you find Walder?” Grandfather Selwyn boomed over and ruffled everybody’s hair.

“Walder? That’s a horrible name for a dog,” Uncle Jaime laughed, but he looked sad when he glanced back at the dog.

“The feminine forms are good names for a chickens,” Tommen commented.

“Of course they are.” Aunt Brienne patted him on the back.

“Little Walder here was old man Kartarth’s pooch. He passed on to the salty heavens a few months back, right before you lot arrived, and nobody could find good ol’ Walder. He looks skinny, poor boy. He needs a biscuit.” Grandfather Selwyn took said biscuit from his pocket and tore off pieces to feed to the dog.

“Does he belong to anyone now?” Uncle Jaime asked too eagerly.

“Not a soul!” Grandfather Selwyn winked at Tommen.

Uncle Jaime bent down. “Here boy! Here  _ Quentyn _ ! Do you want to come live in a house with an entire zoo in it? You do? Of course you do. Fuzzy boy…” He rubbed his face right between the dogs ears and suddenly he looked like Tommen when he stared at Briann or Ser Pounce. Or the chickens.

Myrcy had never seen Uncle Jaime behave quite so ludicrously. Apparently, neither had Aunt Brienne, she was laughing so hard. “Then I guess we have a dog now, Tom.”

“I am very pleased to hear that.” Tommen nodded, dropping from Brienne’s arms to greet his newest menagerie member.

A clomping sound burst from the trees, and out paraded a pure white horse with a glorious princess on its back.

_ Marg! _

“O-M-G you’re not dead!” Myrcy shouted.

Quentyn the dog barked.

“I’m ded but not dead!” Marg shouted back, sliding off the horse and faceplanting into the wet grass. She hopped up, her skin kind of green in places. “I’m okay! Di…my friend  _ Rickon Farly _ is fine, too. And the pilots! Except they’re drunk, but so is one of the horses!”

The other horses came into view, and four of them were majestic as ever, with Dickon… _ Rickon Farly _ , leading them, but the last one weaved all over the place. The two pilot guys were also weaving and running into the sloshed horse every few steps.

“’S’great cordial!” said Danwell. Or Hosteen. Whichever.

“You missed it! You missed the  _ news _ !” Myrcy shouted to Marg.

“Something awesome happen and I missed it?!?!! Well, something awesome happened to me, too, so that’s okay. By awesome, I mean  _ Rickon Farly _ .” Marg ran over and tore Myrcy from whichever family member’s arm were holding her just then, and wrapped her up in her green and cordial-purple self.

“Ooh, I missed you! Sansa, stop fainting and get over here!”

Sansa wilted over. “Tall awkward babies!” she breathed.

Myrcy beamed and whispered in Marg’s ear. “Aunt Brienne is pregnant!”

Marg was still for a moment. Too still. Myrcy thought something was wrong, but then Marg shrieked. “Tall awkward babies! It’s happening!”

“It’s happening!” Myrcy echoed.

“It’s happened!” Sansa wailed.

“Oh yeah, and Sansa got engaged to Willas, but who cares about that,” Myrcy shrugged.

“ _ I _ care!” Sansa wailed.

“Darling, of course you do. That’s lovely.” Marg patted Sansa on the head just once like a tiny little bird.

Aunt Brienne placed a nice warm-looking pretty hand on Marg’s shoulder and sighed. “I’m very happy to see you safe.”

Marg stared up at Aunt Brienne with her mouth open like a fresh-caught fish. “O-M-G!”

Aunt Brienne patted her shoudler and retreated. 

Then Myrcy felt all sunken again inside. “Everything’s ruined though. I mean, it’s not  _ tragic _ now, because of the tall awkward baby and being an aunt and such. But the other stuff is ruined.”

Aunt Brienne and Uncle Jaime and Tommen were crouched down and playing with Quentyn the dog. Grandfather Selwyn bent to whisper, even though he could never quite manage.

“You know, girls, maybe we’re putting too much weight on the  _ event _ part of this secret surprise wedding business. The light after a storm is the best you’re even going to find. It’ll be like this until nightfall, and we’ve got the septon, and we’ve got everybody who’s important, and we’ve got a whole bunch of egg cake left and plenty of butter biscuits. Would it be that bad to do the surprise wedding…now?”

Myrcy stared at Marg who stared at Sansa who stared at Myrcy. Then they switched. Then they stared up at Grandfather Selwyn.

“Could we do it?” Myrcy wondered breathily.

“Would it be a little bit epic?” Sansa wailed quietly.

“Would  _ they _ do it?” Marg considered businessly.

“Only one way to find out!” Grandfather Selwyn boomed. He turned to Uncle Jaime and Aunt Brienne. “See here…everybody’s been wanting to throw you a surprise wedding for an age and a half, and things keep happening to shove it off, like humping cats and sick lizards and helicopters with haughty rich people in them. We’ve got about four hours until this gorgeous light is gone. What say you to a not-so-surprise wedding right before dinner?”

Uncle Jaime looked at Aunt Brienne. She looked at him. He said, “Would you like to get married on a day like this, when we’ve been stuck in a cave after getting soaked in a storm because there are completely insane people surrounding us at all times and there’s no stopping it?”

Her tiny little smile split into a wide grin. Myrcy wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Aunt Brienne smile like that, without being embarrassed at all. “I can’t think of a better situation in which to get married. Not even an unexpected rush wedding at the Quiet Isle Twenty-Four Hour Sept.”

Uncle Jaime matched her grin and took her hand. “All right then. I guess we’re getting married today.” He turned to the girls and Grandfather Selwyn. “I assume you’ve formed some kind of horrible plan to make that happen, or you wouldn’t have offered?”

“We’ve got it covered! Now go inside and get some biscuits, and you’ll have to shower because you’re covered in dust. That better be cave chalk and not drugs!” Grandfather Selwyn boom-laughed and shooed them away, waiting until they were out of earshot. “Okay girls, we should plan for two hours so the light is still perfect. I’ve got Edric covered, and the license is in my safe.”

“Two hours!” Sansa wailed.

“Two hours. We can do this,” Marg chanted. “We can do this.”

“We’re going to need  _ everybody _ ,” Myrcy didn’t even shout.

Marg nodded and started counting on her fingers. “Dickon will get the horses ready and try to sober up that one sloshy beast. Danwell and Hosteen and Podrick Payne and Gendry can move hay bales down to the beach. _That Dornish boy,_ ” she eyed Myrcy who let her eyes narrow just a little bit, can talk the Oyster Shack into sending over their emergency chowders or whatever. Arya can paint some kind of flower arch thing on the dick log. Tommen can refresh Ser Pounce’s ring-bearer training. Uncle Tyrion can get Uncle Jaime ready, and Aunt Tysha can iron stuff because I’m pretty sure everyone else would burn holes, and Grandmother can—”

“Keep Grandfather Tywin occupied,” Myrcy interrupted.

“He’s here  _ too _ !!?!?! Gods, this is like a retirement home now. Anyway, and Sansa can take Willas and do the music, and Loras and Renly can arrange it all with their choreography skillz, and  _ you _ can do something with that dress mock-up, and  _ I  _ will find all the cameras on the whole island to document this epic historic event. Maybe even a drone!” Marg nodded in satisfaction.

“Okay!”

“Okay!”

“Righto!”

“This is happening,” Sansa whispered.

“This is happening!” Marg confirmed.

“Help!” Myrcy clutched her chest. Too many feelz. Just…too…many.

 

* * *

 

Brienne ducked for the fourth time to look out the front window at the madness. She stood on a kitchen stool in the bedroom of the summer house, which caused the top of her head to graze the ceiling if she so much as took a not-even-that-deep breath.

“ _ Pleasseeeeee _ Aunt Brienne!?!?!?! I’ve got to get this hem done!” Myrcy pleaded. For the fourth time.

Brienne wanted to sigh, but that would cause more head-scraping.

“Apologies, Myrcy. I’m…restless.” And nervous.

She had been standing on that stool for an hour, which had been plenty of time to reflect on the cause of her nerves. They were  _ not _ because it was accidentally her wedding day. She was already married, and already had both a wedding day  _ and _ an accidental one. They were  _ not _ because she had any anxiety about Jaime, or the rest of the screwball family, or the realization that Jaime loved dogs the way Tommen loved chickens, or even the baby. These were all delightful things.

No, they  _ were _ because she did not believe she’d ever be fully over the petrifying fear of making a complete idiot of herself in public.

When it was just Jaime and that half-drunk septon on the Quiet Isle, she had not been nervous at all. The septon wouldn’t remember if she’d been an idiot, and Jaime never cared. Well, he claimed she never  _ was  _ an idiot, but he was just being Jaime.

She was certain to faceplant in the still-wet sand like Margaery Tyrell falling off a horse, but with less grace. She knew she would forget all the vows and say something about stranger danger or leather instead of the Mother. She knew that, because the girls were responsible for everything, there would be photos and videos  _ everywhere _ , capturing all her hideous mistakes.

She placed a calming hand over her stomach, which did nothing for her, but she hoped it beamed some sort of soothing vibrations into the baby. No, that was too far. She refused to be  _ that _ weird.

“Awmust…” Myrcy whispered around a mouthful of sewing supplies. “Fife moa minuths.”

Brienne stared out the window as much as she could manage from her position, though she could mostly see only the roof of the porch and bales of hay being hauled methodically across the grass toward the beach path. That was one problem she’d have to solve later, and if it didn’t risk a nice head bump, she’d laugh about it. The bales of hay were kept in the barn as partial food for the little asses and to insulate them from the colder walls, and they would now have to be replaced because of the wet sand. Nobody really thought through  _ anything _ when some epic plan was underway. But that was okay. She was the fixer.

If only someone could fix  _ her _ to stop her from doing something mortifying during the ceremony. She shouldn’t be this nervous. She  _ knew _ that.

“There!” Myrcy half-shouted, apparently having removed whatever she’d been holding between her teeth.

Brienne turned slowly on the stool, very slowly as her bare feet hardly fit. She stared down at Myrcy’s rapt face, and smiled, because Myrcy might technically be an adult, but like this, she looked like a sunny little angel.

“It’s not what I was going for originally. Too simple, you know? There were supposed to be forty-thousand blue and red sequins and a cape. But I think this is pretty nice.” Myrcy smiled shyly.

_ Forty-thousand sequins?!?!?  _ Good gods. She would have looked like a float in the Tarthday regatta parade! A hasty dress made from bedsheets had to be a thousand percent better, regardless.

Myrcy blinked rapidly, clearly nervous herself. “I can maybe find some trim! Like, there are tassels on the curtains in Grandfather Selwyn’s study...”

“Simple is fine, Myrcy. I like simple.”

Myrcy sat back on the carpet and hugged her knees to her chest. “Well, I guess you have to see it. Please don’t hate it? I mean,  _ obviously _ you can hate it! But like, I don’t  _ want _ you to hate it?”

“I will not hate it.” She nodded decisively. As she sort of hated  _ all _ dresses, this one wasn’t going to be any worse. It didn’t even matter if she really  _ did _ hate the dress, because this time, the wedding wasn’t for her. Or Jaime. It was for everyone else who loved them. And that was why she should  _ not _ be nervous. She would continue to work on herself, she vowed, because all these people who cared so much wouldn’t even care if she face-planted. 

She extended one leg to step down from the stool.

It happened so fast there was no way to stop it, but her brain somehow managed to process that the dress was too tight around the knees, that there was a surprisingly loud ripping sound, that she could not regain her balance once her leg was hovering in mid-air, that she was falling face-first to the carpet, that she had  _ known _ she would do that (!), that stomachs were the general residential area of babies, and that she was going to fall on the baby.

She would  _ not _ fall on the baby. Instead, she caught herself in a weird iron-cross between the footboard and the dresser, with the toes of her non-hovering leg still on the stool. And she experienced a very peculiar revelation as she slowly twisted and lowered herself onto her side. If she were not so tall, she couldn’t have done it, and if she were not so strong, she couldn’t have done it, and if she were not so accustomed to instantaneous, chaos-mitigating action by virtue of living with two children, one zoo, and Jaime, she couldn’t have done it.

So she was grateful. Truly, soulfully, grateful for her body, however it was made.

Myrcy’s wail brought her out of her momentary stupor. “O-M-G!!!!! I almost killed you! Oh nooooooo!” 

Brienne eased herself up, feeling no ill effects except for a build-up of adrenaline and some tricep aches. She crawled the few feet over to Myrcy who was huddled in ball.

“It’s fine, Myrcy. I swear, everything is fine.” She wrapped her arms around the poor girl and gently settled her against her chest, rocking her like the small child she’d resembled moment before. “I’m fine, the baby is fine, you’re fine, too.”

Myrcy sniffled and cried. “How are you…so nice? You shouldn’t be….” sniff, “…so nice to an-almost murderer! And…I don’t…,” sniff, “deserve you, and you should just leave me and never speak to me again because I did something to upset you.”

Brienne felt a startling rush of pure rage. Not at Myrcy,  _ never _ at Myrcy. At Myrcy’s mother. That…that… _ bitch _ .

It felt good even to think it. No matter how many stories she’d heard from Jaime and even Tyrion, no matter that she’d seen herself how that awful woman had hurt her children, she still managed to be surprised. She was going to have to  _ fix _ this.

She knew exactly what to do.

But first, there was the matter of the dress, because Myrcy wouldn’t even try to feel better if there were no dress at all.

She held Myrcy out by the shoulders, staring until the weepy girl would finally meet her gaze.

“Myrcy?”

“Y…yes?” Myrcy sniffed.

Brienne hoped her expression conveyed the gravity of her words. “I am  _ not _ upset with you. It was just an accident.” She placed her palm on Myrcy’s damp cheek. “I think things have been very hard on you this year. I didn’t realize that, and I’m sorry. But everything is going to be okay. I  _ swear  _ it. There is something you must understand though. Promise me you will listen, alright?”

Myrcy snorted and nodded, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

Brienne took a deep breath, making sure that Myrcy was looking at her. “You are a very special person. You are kind, more than most people. You think of everyone else before yourself. You are smart as a whip and never give yourself any credit because you are surrounded by more…boisterous personalities. I think you diminish yourself because you don’t believe in your own strengths. They weren’t good enough for one person, or two people, or however many, but that doesn’t matter now because  _ they  _ weren’t good enough for  _ you _ . I understand, but I swear it doesn’t matter. You are very, very loved. Jaime loves you like you were his own daughter. Tommen loves you probably more than anyone else. My father loves you.  _ I _ love you, Myrcy. You’re mine now, too. I don’t walk out on that, ever. You understand?”

Myrcy stared at her like a frightened owl, but then she threw her around Brienne’s neck and squeezed just a bit too tightly.

“I love you, tooooooooo!”

Brienne laughed a little into Myrcy’s silky hair. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

Myrcy leaned back with a very serious brow furrow. She blinked three times. “Everything you said about me, somebody could say about you.”

Brienne also blinked, four times. Was it…no, surely not. That wasn’t true, it was far too flattering.

She refused to acknowledge the list of character traits, that denial itself probably something she should consider later, but maybe, just maybe, the part about diminishing her strengths and feeling lesser because some people were hurtful, and the part about some other people loving her anyway…those were true.

She nodded. “Then it’s a good thing we’re both in the same family, hmm?”

Myrcy beamed at her. “O-M-G, I never ever dreamed that the only person I was like,  _ ever _ such a fan over, I mean, nobody understands the intense depth of my  _ fanning _ , you know? I never dreamed my fan-object-person would be like…my  _ mom _ ! What even?!?”

Brienne laughed for a long while. It really was a bit ridiculous, but everything they ever did was ridiculous.

“Well, Myrcy, Tarth  _ is _ a place where dreams come true.”

“It really is.” Myrcy glanced out the window at the incredibly light over the sea. “I don’t want to leave.”

Brienne shrugged. “Then don’t. If that’s what you want, make it happen.” She considered Myrcy’s great loves...songs and legends, romances, costumes, history...not unlike her own interests at a young age before it had been pushed aside in favor of pragmatism. That was where her books came from, her childhood loves. “Myrcy, what do you think of a collaboration? We could do something together, a book about Tarth’s history and legends for children.”

Myrcy’s eyes snapped to her, her mouth gaping open. “Seriously?!?!?! You would want to  _ work _ with me?!?! To  _ do _ something?!?!?! O-M-G!”

Brienne had to laugh, but it was a fond sort of laugh. “I would love to. Of everyone here, you seem to understand Tarth the best, even more than most Tarthians. It’s a special place. I think it deserves the right kind of attention, don’t you?”

“Yessssss, I doooo! Gods, this is going to be  _ amazing _ ! And I can make Viewtube videos with walking tours and tell the tales like on beaches and stuff!” Myrcy’s smile fell just a bit. “But we’re going back to the city soon. I don’t want to.”

Brienne once more knew what to do. Despite all her angst, Myrcy seemed to have been growing more... _ into _ herself on Tarth, away from her friends for awhile, and away from all things  _ Lannister _ except for Jaime. On Tarth, Myrcy wasn’t facing expectations based on her name on and her family. She could forge her own path. And Selwyn would  _ love _ it if more people were around. “Then stay. I think you should, if you want to.”

“Just like that? I can just live on Tarth and become Tarth-adjacent, and work to make the lives of Tarthians better through a renewed connection to Tarthian history and marketed tourism, and  _ work with you _ ?!?!” Myrcy was so serious that Brienne could  _ not _ laugh this time, even though she wanted to.

“As I said, you can if you want to. If my dreams can come true, why not yours?”

Myrcy nodded, mostly to herself. “I think I will. It’s going to be amazing. But not for a little awhile.” She beamed up at Brienne again. “I want to be something more important first. I want to be an  _ aunt _ .”

Brienne grinned. “You will be the best aunt-cousin-sister any baby has ever had. I’m certain of it. And now…I have an idea about this dress.”

Myrcy frowned. “I ruined it, and it wasn’t even good to begin with.”

“You didn’t ruin it. Tarth is telling you to try something  _ different _ .” Brienne wondered if her smirk were sufficiently sly the way Jaime’s always was. “Do you have a stapler?”

 

* * *

 

Myrcy had no idea what was going on, and that was  _ really _ bad considering that  _ she _ was one of the three people who were supposed to know  _ exactly _ what was going on.

But Aunt Brienne had insisted.

The moment Myrcy finished fixing the dress that was now only-sort-of-a-dress, Aunt Brienne had told Myrcy that they had to go to Grandfather Selwyn’s for a few minutes on a  _ secret errand _ . Myrcy had made Brienne wear the longest, fluffiest bathrobe she could find to hide the wedding outfit, because Uncle Jaime was  _ not _ allowed to see that before the ceremony!

Aunt Brienne was practically dragging her across the lawn, but only because Myrcy’s legs were little stubs compared to Aunt Brienne’s.

They went through the kitchen door of Tarth manor, and inside, Uncle Jaime was waiting with Tommen who seemed just as antsy as Myrcy was.

“We’ve only got fifteen minutes until the ceremony!” Myrcy almost wailed like Sansa.

“This won’t take long,” Uncle Jaime said. “And it’s important.”

“Very important,” Aunt Brienne repeated. The she looked at Uncle Jaime. “You got them?”

Uncle Jaime grinned. “I had to be a little too  _ Lannister _ , but yes, I got them.”

“Both?” she asked again.

“Both.” He nodded.

“Is that why you kept texting when I was trying to fix the dress?” Myrcy complained.

“Yes. It’s worth it.” Aunt Brienne had a weird gleam in her eye. Myrcy wondered if they were sort of merging into each other, because Uncle Jaime’s neck had started to get red whenever they got back from sneaking off, and Aunt Brienne was smiling kind of smirky and even winking sometimes! Was that a thing?  _ Merging _ ?

Uncle Jaime set a few papers on the kitchen island, and took out a very businessy pen. Maybe he borrowed it from Marg. Aunt Brienne stepped close and held the papers down while he signed them. He gave her the pen and smiled at her, a cute little soft smile, and Myrcy could tell he’d forgotten they had an audience.

Finally, Aunt Brienne turned to them. “First thing’s first...we’re going to be spending lots of time here on Tarth, at least every summer and probably most holidays, and my father as representative of Tarth has decided to make the two of you honorary official Tarthians.” She held up one hand so Myrcy held in her scream of elation. “Now, this is usually  _ not _ done, but when the representative of Tarth says it’s okay, then it’s okay. Jaime is going to be a Tarthian-by-marriage, and it’s important to all of us that the two of you are just as official. Now you may react.”

Myrcy shrieked and jumped up and down. She  _ loved _ Tarth so much!

Tommen tugged on Aunt Brienne’s robe. “Does this status grant barn space?”

Uncle Jaime laughed. “I’m sure we can work something out, Tom.”

Then Aunt Brienne held the pen and looked down at Tom. She swallowed. “Do you remember last year, when your Uncle Jaime had your adoption papers drawn up, and then he made it official right after the engagement?”

Tommen nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. I did not have to worry about Mother Lannister anymore.”

Every since that day, Tom had decided to call their long-gone bane,  _ Mother Lannister _ like some old witch in a cave living with frogs. Myrcy liked it.

Aunt Brienne blinked a lot. “Would you…like to be adopted again? I mean…by me? Both of us. Jaime and I together.”

Tommen stared at her with wide eyes. His little fists clenched against his sides. He was so happy! Myrcy wanted to cry for him, but she was also a little bit sad that she was too old to get new hot parents.

Tommen blinked, too. “I hear it is a wise course of action to have a second guardian.”

Aunt Brienne let out a breath and grinned. “And I am very happy to be that, Tom.” She turned back to the papers and signed them, and she smiled at them with a very satisfied look before turning back. “Come here, Tom. It’s official!”

Tom ran to her, and they even looked kind of alike. Not fair!

Uncle Jaime moved over to where Myrcy stood. “There’s something else.” He held up another set of papers. “Obviously, we can’t adopt you, because you’re technically an adult. However…” he looked over at Aunt Brienne, and Myrcy thought she could see  _ scheming _ in their eyes. That was  _ her  _ job! “Brienne had a fabulous idea. As usual. These papers will change your name to Myrcella Lannister-Baratheon-Lannister-Tarth-Lannister, or whatever you happen to want, and they will list your next of kin as Tommen, myself, and Brienne. We hope you know how much you mean to us even without these, but sometimes, making it official feels good.”

Myrcy felt all clenched up inside. This…this was…awesome. This was  _ real _ . She didn’t have to be the floating weirdo who was related to pretty much everyone but belonged nowhere! And Aunt Brienne could be…Aunt-mom Brienne? And Uncle-dad Jaime? It sounded so  _ good _ !

She jumped into Uncle-dad Jaime’s arms and pretty much choked him. “Ooh, I want it so bad! I want it! Gimme it!”

He chuckled and waited until she let him go, then he signed the papers on the counter. Aunt Brienne did, too. Tommen was grinning and slipped his hand into her left one. She picked up the pen and immediately signed the next of kin thing, even though she didn’t really know what that meant.

On the name one, she paused. What did she want to  _ be _ ?  _ All  _ the names were just way too many names. Her father had been Baratheon, but she never really knew him that well, and he was hardly around, and he’d died when she was like…nine? She wasn’t even sure anymore. Tom had never known him.

So she was  _ sort of _ Baratheon, and didn’t want to totally ignore that. And she wasn’t even at  _ all _ Tarth, except in spirit, and in spirit, she was  _ mostly _ Tarth, because she loved Tarth and also Brienne who was Tarth.

But she was mostly Lannister. Uncle Jaime was Lannister, and he was fab. Not all Lannister things were bad.

She nodded to herself and struck out the many-named-Myrcy on the paper, and wrote in what she wanted. Then she signed it, and she guessed she was now Myrcella Quil Lannister-Tartheon.

She  _ loved _ it.

She looked up at her new Aunt-Uncle-mom-dad hot parents, because that was probably what next of kin meant. She beamed at them.

Their arms wrapped around her and Tom, too, and she let out a breath. Everything was going to be okay. She’d figure herself out, in time. Hopefully. And now she had hot parents who were about to get married in the most epic historic wedding event ever.

 

* * *

 

Jaime stood on the beach, the warm air still and silent after the upheaval of the storm.

Previously, he’d been in a state of renewed elation, chronic chest-clenching, and delight as he’d dressed in his own tuxedo and barely registered any of the preparations since he was fixated on Brienne’s text about the adoption-slash-next-of-kin paper idea.

He’d had to call his lawyer and almost bribe him to make it all happen within the hour. But it had happened thanks to Selwyn’s professional-quality laser printer mostly used for storm maps. The signed papers were now tucked in Selwyn’s safe. Myrcy and Tom had both looked so happy, and it felt so right. They were getting around to having Brienne sign Tom’s adoption papers anyway, but her idea about including Myrcy in whatever way they could was sheer genius. He really couldn’t get over how  _ right _ everything was.

But now, he was just astonished.

That usually only happened when was staring into Brienne’s eyes.

The girls might actually have magical powers. He really couldn’t be certain anymore. The phallic log had been transformed by draping greenery and painted lilies. That weird septon seemed slightly less shell-shocked than before, and stood beaming with pride over the whole affair. Selwyn had appeared several minutes earlier with a valid, ready-to-go Tarth marriage license which Jaime had signed. He reminded himself to check on the whole two-licenses-will-this-get-us-in-trouble-somehow issue.

He even wore his own tuxedo, which Tyrion had brought for  _ his _ own secret wedding and had forgotten to hand over. It was the old tuxedo, yes, but Jaime was gratified to see that it still fit like a glove. Fine, maybe a slightly tight glove in the thigh department, but that was due mostly to firmer muscle tone. From  _ activities _ . Not biking.

Yet the most astonishing part was the crowd. There were rows and rows of hay bale seats arranged in a very functional pattern, all filled, and behind that, many beach blankets and lawn chairs. With people in them. All filled. Jaime didn’t know this many people in  _ life _ let alone on Tarth.

Tyrion meandered over, grinning and holding a tumbler of some kind of liquor. “Well now, brother, I would have said that my unplanned secret barn wedding was crazier than your planned not-secret wedding, but that is clearly no longer the case.”

Jaime returned the grin. “It was always going to be this way. Our fate is inevitable. And who gave you liquor?”

Tyrion’s grin turned into a smug smirk. “My wife! I know, it’s amazing. She’s amazing. She just sauntered out of Selwyn’s kitchen with a plate of biscuits for the potluck, and handed this to me.”

“Good for you?” Jaime laughed. “Wait, what potluck?”

Tyrion looked more gleeful than usual. “There is going to be a potluck dinner after. Didn’t you know? Apparently, no one did until random Tarthians began to appear, bringing…pots. Selwyn said that’s what Tarthians do.” He swigged his liquor. “I’ve never been to a potluck! I hope Willas gets food poisoning.”

Jaime still wasn’t sure he knew was a potluck  _ was _ . It didn’t sound…Lannister. “You do not. You like Willas.”

“I hate Willas.” Tyrion swigged again.

Jaime’s eyes went wide. “You  _ do _ like Willas! I don’t even like Willas! I don’t hate Willas, but I don’t precisely enjoy his company. You  _ like _ him.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Fine, whatever. I  _ might _ have a disgusting soft spot for lovesick morons. That’s why I like you.”

“Hmm, I’m trying to remember the redeeming aspect of your personality, but it’s escaping me…” Jaime chuckled. Everything felt lighthearted around him, and there was a buzz of anticipation in the crowd. “Did Selwyn happen to mention exactly  _ why _ there are so many people here?”

“He let Myrcy invite them with a ViewTube video. Over the storm emergency system, because this, apparently, is a Tarth historic event of epic importance.” Tyrion pondered something and stared at the sea. “One wonders how Brienne is actually related to Selwyn. His level of crazy matches  _ ours _ , not hers.”

Jaime smiled, more to himself than at Tyrion. “She’s more like him than most people know. And she can get pretty damn  _ crazy _ .”

“And with that, I’m out, because you’ve taken on that stupid far-away expression when I know you’re thinking about weird sex on a rooftop or something. Also, congratulations on the baby. Really. Thank you for telling me in the kitchen with a mouth full of biscuit, because otherwise, I would have heard from Willas or something and been quite put out.”

Jaime grinned even wider. “We also adopted Tom in the kitchen, and Myrcy changed her name to Lannister-Tartheon. And Selwyn said something about making them both official Tarthians, as I am about to be a Tarthian by marriage. It’s that brilliant?”

Tyrion was still and expressionless for a moment. Then he burst into laughter. “Of course you did, and of course  _ she _ did! That’s insane! I expect nothing less. Congratulations on the baby, who will probably be named Asstarthia Pouncelot Lannister of Tarth, and on the Tom thing, and the Myrcy…whatever that is. Be back in a few.” Tyrion bowed like a knight of old and wandered back to his wife.

The  _ baby _ . Trunksley. Jaime had no idea what the rest of their lives were going to be like now, because they had achieved everything he’d ever wanted. What were his goals supposed to be? Finding the perfect waffle iron? He’d get through the wonder of baby Lannistarth first, then…baby Lannistarth number two. That was the only sensible solution.

Speaking of sensible, or rather,  _ not _ sensible, Sansa and Willas appeared wearing matching rose-colored poet shirts and poet pants (Jaime wasn’t sure exactly what those pants  _ were _ , but he knew instinctively that they were  _ poet _ ), and long brocade vests. They looked like old Valyrian wax dummies at a dungeon zombie experience. And Willas had his mandolin.

He, Jaime Lannister, was going to get married with mandolin music. That wasn’t his…first choice, but Willas was beaming like he’d gotten some kind of smile-insertion plastic surgery and there wasn’t any duct tape peeking out from his shirt and not a hive in sight. Jaime was  _ almost _ happy for him. He shook his head instinctively. Being happy for Willas Tyrell was just too much.

More people scrambled, or in certain cases, borderline-goose-stepped down from the houses. Tysha, Arya Stark and that Gendry kid took seats on reserved hay bales in the front row. Gendry really  _ did _ look just like Renly and the septon. Podrick Payne had shown them all his picture of the three. Jaime had his theory, but he could never say it aloud except to Brienne. It would mean that Gendry was Myrcy’s half-brother.  _ And _ the septon, too. He wasn’t sure how much crazier things could actually get, and he knew he didn’t want to find out.

Loras and Renly sat, too, then Podrick Payne and…was that the waiter from the Oyster Shack? Why did he get a good seat when he saw more Shack staff further back?

Olenna Tyrell sat next to Loras, prim and still wearing a leopard scarf around her head despite the warmth of the air. She looked moderately pleased, which did not surprise Jaime. Olenna was as much of a secret softy as Tyrion. The two drunk pilots were leaning against one another in the third row.

His father sat. Jaime was not at all amused that his father was present. It would be the only taint on this oddball wedding, and Jaime didn’t even know precisely  _ how _ Tywin had made it to Tarth when flying had been banned since the day before. Had he taken a secret speedboat from Storms End? Was Tyrion right and Tywin had a decommissioned naval submarine? More likely, Tywin had come in with Podrick Payne and had been waiting for the opportune moment to strike fear into the hearts of men and little asses. Podrick probably had no idea. It wouldn’t have been the first time Tywin had hidden himself in various secret compartments of various vehicles for various nefarious purposes. Jaime decided to ignore him. Nothing could ruin this moment.

Then the mandolin music began. It was horrible. A too-upbeat version of Hands of Gold quieted the crowd, and from the pathway to the houses, Tommen appeared. With the little asses, all twelve of them, wearing tee shirts and bow ties.

As Tom grinned and paraded them down the aisle between the hay bales, Jaime could see that there were words spray-painted on the sides of the shirts.

_ Welcome. To. Tarth’s. Greatest. Ever. Epic. Historic. Event. Wedding. Of. Epic. Epicness. _

The little asses marched almost in unison, and when they reached the front, they split to the sides, six to the left, and six to the right. The words split, too.

_ Welcome Tarth’s Ever Historic Wedding Epic  _ and _ To Greatest Epic Event of Epicness _

And somehow, the phrases still sounded like the girls.

Tommen raised what looked like a tiny dog whistle to his lips, and the asses stood still with their ears up. Quentyn the dog also bounded over and sat at Tom’s feet.

Tommen approached, with Quentyn copying his march, his eyes all lit up. “I trained them! I think I can train anything. I am going to have to try a sea beast next.” He moved away to clip the little asses to leads driven into the hay bales, and Quentyn at the front. So they were staying. Jaime only wondered where the chickens were.

Oh.

Tommen was returning with a cart filled with leashed chickens, a caged Gatehouse Ami, and Briann the Lizard. They bawked and mewled, and bleated the whole way down the aisle and were far less cooperative than the asses. Jaime thought he might suggest that Tommen work on the chickens before he wrangled a dolphin.

The third time Tommen came down the aisle, he was with Myrcy, their arms linked as they slow-walked out of sync. Tyrion was on her other side, so between the three of them and with the various length of their limbs, Jaime was surprised they made it to the front without falling over. Tyrion was chuckling the whole way. He and Tom were co-best-men, because there was no way Jaime could take that away from either of them.

Jaime sighed and looked over at Myrcy who was waiting in the spot reserved for Brienne’s maid of honor. Myrcy looked beautiful in some kind of filmy pink dress, the Lannister gold of her hair catching the glowing island light. She was so grownup. It felt bittersweet to see her like this, but then far more sweet than bitter. He had gotten her to this place, relatively  _ okay _ in the grand scheme of things, and Brienne had given her even more. He was so glad they’d never told the children about the secret wedding. They deserved this. Something caught his eye. That Dornish boy from the Oyster Shack was  _ looking _ at Myrcy. And she was  _ looking _ back.

Before Jaime could consider the implications of that, Margaery Tyrell came down the aisle with Ser Pounce on his velvet leash, wearing a bowtie. He strutted proudly like a mob boss. Did Margaery’s hips  _ never _ stop swaying? It was absurd! She seemed to be in some sort of contest with Ser Pounce in the strutting arena.

Jaime had allowed Tommen to use Ser Pounce as a groomsmen, because apparently, a proper wedding required an even number of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and Brienne had the three girls, but Jaime only had Tyrion and Tommen. Ser Pounce it was. Jaime was slightly disgruntled that Quentyn the dog was relegated to the side with the chicken cart, but they  _ had _ only met that day. Hmmph.

All the various persons and creatures were in their places, and there was a moment of near-silence until the music changed. Then it was a slow, almost sweet version of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. On mandolin. Sung by Sansa. With a bizarre accompaniment of mewls, bawks and bleats from the cats, chickens, and Briann the Lizard.

And he didn’t hate it. Tyrion was right. Love  _ had _ made him a moron.

He saw her come down the path on her father’s arm.

It seemed to take forever until they reached the aisle, but then the light hit her as she was not walking in her father’s shadow anymore. Selwyn’s smile split his rosy face in two, his cheeks round and jolly, and his blue eyes beaming with pride. He looked positively regal in his suit without a fishing lure in sight.

But Brienne…Jaime felt his breath catch, his heart clench. He remembered feeling imbalanced and giddy so many times, just looking at her, but this was different. It didn’t matter that they were already married, or that she was already pregnant, or that they’d already been together for years. It felt like he was seeing her for the first time, that faceless girl from his long-buried dreams come to life.

The glowing light painted her hair like molten metal, silver and gold at the same time, and her lovely sapphire sea eyes shone right at him. She flashed a look at the noisy animals who all calmed down with only one final bawk from Hodorella. Then Brienne smiled a full smile despite the fact that she was surrounded by people. She wore white, something Myrcy had made. It was sleeveless and showed off her sexy collarbone and her sexier shoulders. He caught a metallic glint in the light from somewhere around her right knee.

He squinted, not wanting to be distracted for even a second, but he had to know. As she walked, her long legs made the fabric flutter, and he caught more glints, all up and down her inseam. The  _ dress _ wasn’t a dress, but a sort of jumpsuit, and the inside seams were held together by staples.

Staples.

He looked back at her, and she was close enough that he could see the exact second when she winked.

He grinned like a madwoman.

That was the beginning. Well, he liked to think the beginning was the publishing brunch where they’d met and shared riveting commentary about eggs. If not that, then Myrcy’s birthday party where he was convinced he’d fallen for her across the table when she’d bitten into a greasy apple just to make Myrcy feel better. If not that, when she’d fixed everything that had gone wrong after.

And if not that, then the coffee date they’d shared that night, over terrible burnt brew and worse sandwiches, even though he’d screwed up and failed to phone her.

Maybe they did owe a  _ lot _ to Olenna Tyrell for maneuvering their next encounter. Just not Tarth. Taking care of Willas and Margaery just  _ might _ be enough.

It was at Olenna’s party when he’d known that  _ Brienne  _ knew, too. At the brunch, and the birthday, and the coffee shop,  _ he’d  _ known. It was a one-sided, mostly denied  _ knowing _ . First, that she was special, then that she was remarkable, then that she was  _ it _ . At Olenna’s, he’d seen in her eyes that  _ she  _ knew, and he’d kissed her for the first time, and that was that. He’d found out that her dress had been stapled.

He’d dragged her off to the Tyrell library so he could finally,  _ finally _ indulge all that latent longing, not just for her, but for that chance to love the way he’d always wanted to. Maybe even to be loved back. He’d torn the staples from her dress just to feel more of her skin. He’d kept them, too. They were in a little box in his safe.

They would have more to add to the collection now. He couldn’t wait to tear them off.

She was there, and she stood next to him. He wondered what she was thinking, but as he looked into her eyes, he could tell. Most of the time, they didn’t need words. She was thinking about staples, too.

 

* * *

 

“Oh gods, it’s happening Margaery. Like, right now. What is breathing? Help me breathe!” Myrcella Lannister-Tartheon gasped in air.

“I don’t even know! How is this happening  _ to us _ ! We don’t even deserve this!” Sansa Stark whimpered.

Margaery Tyrell hated whimpering. “We deserve this more than anybody has ever deserved anything! Shut up, just shut up. It’s happening!”

Myrcy leaned close to Marg, and Sansa was right there. She’d come over to be the third bridesmaid once the beautiful glorious nightingale magic singing was done. There were tears in Myrcy’s eyes. Like…real ones. Not even  _ fan _ tears.

They watched, clutching each other around their waists, as Uncle-dad Jaime took the cloak made from Grandfather Selwyn’s sail and put it around Aunt-mom Brienne’s shoulders.

Weird Septon Edric said, “My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

He tied the ribbon made from one of Ser Pounce’s cat show awards around their wrists. “Let it be known that Jaime of the House Lannister, and Brienne of the House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

Tommen suddenly leaned forward, out of the groomsmen line, and pointed at Grandfather Tywin. His little angel face was all snarly. Myrcy looked at Grandfather Tywin to see his jaw clench, but he haughtily looked away and didn’t cause trouble. What in the world?

The septon continued, “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.” He dragged the ribbon off and let it flutter to the sand.

Ser Pounce wandered over to chew on it.

“This is…the most…epic thing of beauty anyone has…ever seen!” Sansa wailed. Quietly.

Marg nodded. “I know, darlings. We did it.”

Myrcy couldn’t even shout anything. She was choking on too much happiness-spit.

Septon Edric had them slide the rings onto their fingers. Myrcy was truly surprised. She thought they were leaving out the modern custom because of the historic epic Tarthiness thing, and where did they even  _ get _ rings? So confusing! But  _ beautiful _ .

Septon Edric said, “Now look upon each other and say the words.”

Uncle-dad Jaime’s face was basically gleamier than Tommen’s after getting a new pet. Myrcy couldn’t see Aunt-mom Brienne’s face as well, but the back of her neck was lobster red, which meant she was grinning and super happy.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers (his) and he (she) is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

Uncle-dad Jaime adopted a really sassy little smirk. “With this kiss, I pledge my love. Because you’re mine.  _ Forever _ .”

“You forget the greater truth that  _ you _ are  _ mine _ . Forever.” Aunt Brienne stepped closer to him.

Ooh, just snog already!

There it was! Finally, the realest most official snog. Uncle-dad Jaime’s only hand wrapped around Aunt-mom Brienne’s neck, and he pressed forward and snogged the absolute living daylights out of her. If Myrcy hadn’t taken actual biology in school, she’d think  _ this _ was what got people pregnant. It was just too sexy!

“Oh gods, the  _ feelz _ !” Sansa wailed.

“I’m actually crying. Are you crying? We’re all crying!” Marg sounded shocked.

Sansa commented without even a hint of a wail. “I’m jealous, like  _ really _ , but also…I want to be them. They just  _ loveeeee _ so hard! O-M-G. I want it!”

“They’re my parents! For reals! I have hot parents now!” Myrcy wanted to jump up and down, but it would disrupt the focus on the most epic snog that was even more epic than the previously most-epic snog of Baelor’s Square. And  _ that _ had gone viral! “Marg!” Myrcy dug her fingers into Marg’s side like a claw. “Where are the cameras! We  _ have _ to capture this!”

Marg held up one hand. “Do not fear. There is a tiny camera on every little ass, and Loras set one up on top of the dick log so we get that angle, and Arya put one up in that tree, and there are like, twenty more in places. It’s going to be like a found-footage historical event capture of majesty. We’ll set trends with this! Like your awesome new name!”

“We can post it on my Viewtube!” Myrcy said too loudly,  _ almost  _ a shout.

“It will be the first monetized video. We can donate the proceeds to poor people’s epic weddings or something!” Marg nodded.

Now  _ that _ was something Myrcy could get on board with. Maybe this whole Viewtube thing would work out after all.

Uncle-dad Jaime and Aunt-mom Brienne were still snogging. The crowd was hooting. Uncle Tyrion ripped off his bowtie and went to snog Aunt Tysha. Arya jumped on Gendry. Loras jumped on Renly. Tarthsley Tarth got Alyston’s gum in his mouth. Grandfather Tywin and Olenna looked like they wanted to kill each other with blunt knives. Some random Tarth girls were playing with Podrick Payne’s hair. Grandfather Selwyn came over and lifted Tom and Ser Pounce onto his big shoulders, and they were all grinning. And Trystane was  _ looking at her _ .  _ Myrcy. _

“Where are the unicorns?” Sansa almost-but-not-quite-wailed.

Marg shook herself like a wet dog. “Gods, I’m so feelzy I almost forgot!” She raised one hand into the air and flapped it like she’d broken her wrist.

Willas began a poppy version of the Rains of Castamere, and from far back on the beach, the six white horses were released from Dickon… _ Rickon Farly’s _ care. They trotted toward them in splendor, paper-cone unicorn horns on their foreheads and the dove cages on their backs.

Five of the horses swept past with flowing manes, and the doves flew out into the wondrous storm light, and it was  _ beautiful _ .

And then…the drunk horse’s paper-cone unicorn horn sagged into its eyes, and it started weaving more than it already was, and it ran into the one of the little asses who bray-screeched and kicked loose from its hay bale and knocked open Hodorella’s and Briann’s cages and they both took off, and Grandfather Selwyn loped after them with Tom almost falling from his shoulders, and Quentyn the dog following behind.

Uncle-dad Jaime and Aunt-mom Brienne stopped snogging. They looked up, and the crowd was starting to run in a bunch of directions to catch all the things.

“Save the potluck pies!”

“The little ass is running into the sea!”

“Don’t let it take the boat!”

“So  _ that’s _ happening.” Uncle-dad Jaime nodded, grinned, and pointed at the dock where the little ass was, indeed, trying to get into Grandfather Selwyn’s boat.

“We need to stop inviting animals to things,” Aunt-mom Brienne pondered, but it didn’t seem like she meant it judging by her smile.

The drunk horse’s dove cage had not opened, so the doves inside were freaking out, along with the drunk horse.

Myrcy was just too consumed with feels to  _ care _ . And Trystane was still  _ looking at her _ .

Uncle-dad Jaime and Aunt-mom Brienne looked at each other, that  _ way  _ they did. “I’ll take the ass in the boat, you take the crazy horse-birds, the potluck pies are on their own,” Aunt-mom Brienne said.

Uncle-dad Jaime nodded and stole another little snog, and they went off with confident marches to fix things as they always did.

“We should save the pies,” Myrcy mumbled, watching how Uncle-dad Jaime kept glancing over at Aunt-mom Brienne even though he was wrangling a horse.

“Aunt Tysha is saving the pies,” Sansa whispered. “I’m too stunned that we won life.”

“We  _ did _ win life!” Myrcy shouted in awe. She looked over at Trystane in the front hay row, and he was still staring at her. He smiled, and it wasn’t even sassy! It was…shy? Myrcy almost tripped over one grain of sand or something.

“Oh gods, do we all have boyfriends now?” Marg furrowed her brow and looked disgusted. “How  _ old _ !”

“I don’t have a boyfriend!” Sansa angry-wailed. “I have a fiancé!”

“That’s even older!” Myrcy shouted. And she  _ didn’t _ have a boyfriend, she had a…boy, who was…a waiter. But he smiled at her!

“Hey, I just realized something truly incredible and awe-inspiring!” Marg commented in her business voice. “Our souls have to be sisters, too, because we are in no danger of  _ ever _ stealing each other’s boyfriends or even liking them! Sansa is marrying my brother, I’m date-boning a dumb hot guy, and Myrcy’s with the Dornish! This is so perfect! The two of you hate dumb guys, and I hate the Dornish and my own brothers, and Sansa hates anyone who isn’t Willas! Ooh, I love you both so much!”

“I love  _ you _ both so much!” Sansa wailed.

“I love  _ you both so much _ !” Myrcy shouted.

“But not as much as  _ that _ ,” Marg said, pointing at a place on the beach near the dock.

Uncle-dad Jaime had managed to get the drunk horse under control and handed over to… _ Rickon Farly _ , though Olenna was seriously squinting at him even though Marg had made him wear Grandfather Selwyn’s bucket hat and a bandana over his mouth.

Aunt-mom Brienne had prevented the little ass from floating off to Pentos and was leading it back.

They met in the middle. He took her hand, and the storm light made them glow like an ancient king and queen of Tarth.

“We did that,” Marg whispered.

“We’ll never do anything better than that again, even  _ my _ wedding, and I’m fine with that!” Sansa whispered.

“We found an O-T-P and we made it real. This time, I really  _ cannot _ even.” Myrcy wiped her usual single tear from the corner of her left eye. “Dreams do come true on Tarth.”

 

 


End file.
